Between Worlds
by DreamFlight
Summary: Loki did promise to visit Thor's woman, and who's to say he didn't? What no one can be sure of, is how all the worlds will fare when the fate of Asgard rests on the shoulders of Loki and the awkward astrophysicist who once was Thor's. Post-Thor to well past Avengers, Lokane.
1. Chapter 1

_Well, I promised myself that I *would not* begin another multi-chapter fic. But I have been lurking in the Lokane fandom for awhile now and the simple fact remains: there is just not enough of it. So, here I go. I actually have two potential paths for this story to go in, and the feedback I get will determine if this stays short and simple, or turns into something massive and epic. So if you like it, please review and tell me what you like. If you don't like it, please review and tell me what you don't like. If you think I should take this is some wild and crazy direction, please tell me so. If you think it should stay smaller and better contained, tell me that instead._

_Thank you for reading...  
_

* * *

Normally, Jane was not the sort to attend very many conferences, particularly not those hosted at swanky New York hotels and boasting a cocktail hour that allowed astronomy's best and brightest to connect with those looking to throw money at researchers. In fact, that was the exact sort of conference to which Jane had never been invited, for obvious reasons. The nutcase with the wild theory, who did most of her research perched on a lawn chair in Puente Antiguo, was not commonly thought of a good investment at best. At worst, she was the distraction who discredited the entire research community.

And so it had been. Until SHIELD finally agreed to let her publish some tiny fraction of what had happened in the New Mexico desert. Suddenly, Jane had an invitation, a brand new cocktail dress, and the distressing opportunity to wear high heeled shoes across a luxury hotel carpet. The sum total of the experience was leaving her feeling slightly overwhelmed, and it was with chagrin that she realized the half-empty champagne glass held loosely in her left hand was not helping matters.

It was the first day of the three day conference. After sitting through the almost typically mainstream keynote speech on low frequency radio astronomy, Jane couldn't help but feel out of place. Her research was so… unbelievable in comparison to that which was normally presented here. Furthermore, half of the supporting data was still being withheld by SHIELD, which would only bring headaches for her tomorrow when she was set to present her paper. It seemed a foregone conclusion that this, her first invitation, would likely also be her last. Which left Jane dizzily staring around the cocktail reception with the heartfelt goal of simply enjoying the evening while she had the chance. If she could just bask in the glow of assumed acceptance for just a moment, she might feel like less of a pariah. It would be balm to the long-scabbed wounds of dismissal and meager funding. And perhaps, to the fresher ones left more recently to her heart.

Jane rolled the stem of the champagne glass between her fingers as she studied the effervescent liquid before allowing herself another sip. It was only as she let the glass slip from her lips that she realized the almost determined solitude she had established around herself. Despite what her head was saying, she had subconsciously sought out the quietest section of the ballroom housing the reception. Her slight figure was likely only barely visible behind the decorative shrubbery she had found herself tucked behind. The emerald green of her satiny sheath dress likely served only to hide her further.

Jane sighed into her glass as she raised it once more, finishing its contents. Some things were simply meant to remain as they were. After her peers finished tearing her work apart tomorrow, they would all, quite firmly, reassign her to the category of fringe research and impossibilities, and she would once again disappear into the New Mexico desert. If only certain Asgardians could keep promises, she might not be so restricted in what she could reveal… but then again, perhaps it wasn't fair to hold things against a god.

A wry smile crossed Jane's red-painted lips as she stared into the near distance with amusement and just a hint of sadness. Her life had taken far too many unpredictable turns in the last six months for her to accurately predict what the future might hold. For all she knew, tomorrow's presentation might actually go well! It was that thought that very nearly made her laugh aloud.

"Something amusing, Doctor Foster?" a rather cultured voice said silkily from the other side of the potted plant.

Startled, Jane sucked in a sudden breath. Which, of course, led to her choking, which, in turn, led to her face being a terrible shade of red when the alarmingly attractive owner of the voice leaned forward to regard her, eyebrows piqued with concern, from around the plant's fern-like fronds.

"Are you… alright?" the stranger asked, his voice suddenly hesitant, losing some of its previously seductive promise.

"Quite," Jane coughed again, doubling over slightly as she turned away, "Quite alright!" She coughed again, "Just give me," interject another cough, "a moment."

All in all, Jane felt horribly foolish, and wished, more than a little, that the floor would just open up and swallow her whole. But this was her life. In front of gorgeous strangers, she would forever embarrass herself. And though one such gorgeous stranger might promise to return, hoping that such things might be true was, in the end, illogical and could only lead to more pain. It was the inevitable conclusion drawn from every vaguely romantic encounter Jane could remember. She is endearingly awkward and a little pretty, but then the real world enters the equation. And in the real world, endearingly awkward does not make up for the insecurities of men, or for lives and careers with vastly different trajectories. It would most certainly fail to compete with an otherworldly realm of beautiful, ridiculously tall immortals. No, Jane was not on best of terms with the real world, particularly not in recent months.

Her personal dismissal of her worth as both an intellectual and a romantic interest meant Jane could only feel confused when the stranger was still at her side when her coughing finally subsided, his eyes dark with concern. "Are you entirely certain you are alright?" he asked again. "I am terribly sorry for catching you off guard. I had not expected to have quite such an effect." His eyes twinkled slightly with mischief and Jane found herself smiling. He might be lingering only to be polite, but Jane appreciated that in people. It took a lot of guts to let yourself be seen with a nutcase having a coughing fit in the corner behind the potted plant.

"Normally," she began, one hand smoothing the slightly rumpled front of her dress, as she attempted to balance herself. She paused, "Actually, I'm normally too wrapped up in my work to even notice the people around me. So, really, that was kinda typical, for me, anyway." She winced, cursing herself for her innate honesty, as the stranger seemed momentarily at loss for words. "I mean, you don't need to feel sorry," she amended, "Because it probably would have been the same if it had been anyone." And now she wished twice as hard for the floor to open up, as she realized that she had likely insulted him.

Jane swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry," she said finally, "I'm making such a mess of this." She straightened her shoulders and smiled the best smile she had. "I'm Doctor Jane Foster," she paused, "Which you already knew… but, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. And you are?"

The stranger looked her up and down, as if reassuring himself that she was, in fact, alright. "You may call me Aldric Hemming," he replied, "And believe me, the pleasure is all mine."

Jane felt her already heated cheeks get just slightly warmer. Now that she was no long trying to hide from the man, she could better appreciate just how attractive he really was. Tall and lean, though not lanky, he stood with oddly regal posture. His dark hair was longer than most would wear, though neatly combed back. Dressed in what Jane could only assume to be a designer suit, he looked terribly wealthy. Which probably meant that he was one of the potential investors, rather than a fellow scientist. Which further begged the question as to how he knew her name, and why on earth he was still standing near her.

"I've taken a look at the paper you are presenting tomorrow," he began, his voice once again taking on a silken tone, "And I must say, I am most intrigued." He gestured with one elegant hand toward a server passing with a tray of fresh champagne, "For the lady," he directed the man.

Jane accepted the offered glass, her decidedly inelegant fingers closing nervously around the stem as she tried to ignore her stubby, chewed nails, which even professional manicure services couldn't quite hide. "Well," Jane replied absently, "There's still a lot missing…"

"Yet the theories themselves suggest otherwise, my dear doctor," this Aldric Hemming continued, winking at her, that oddly mischievous twinkle in his eyes once again. "I can't help but feel that the missing pieces having been… omitted? Perhaps not by the wishes of the scientist?"

Jane bit her lip as she smothered a smile. "I can neither confirm nor deny your conjectures, Mr. Hemming," she replied with all the art SHIELD had managed to force upon her.

"But you rather wish you could?" her companion parried.

Jane let her smile shine on through. "If it were up to me," she admitted, "I would share the truth with the whole world and tell everyone that ever thought my theories were crazy that I told them so."

Hemming seemed interested by this. "Do many people think your theories are crazy?" he pressed. "They seem… close to the truth, to me."

"And you know the truth?" Jane pushed, a note of sarcasm slipping into her voice despite herself. "All there is to know about travel between worlds… or even… realms, perhaps?"

Hemming's eyes danced with something Jane couldn't quite place. "Perhaps I do," he replied, "If I did, wouldn't that be something you would like to know?"

It might have been said in jest, but Jane felt the possibility of such a thing vibrate straight through her. "More than you would believe," she breathed, her voice as haunted as she had ever heard it. To travel across the worlds was all she had ever really dreamed of. Thor's descriptions of Asgard had only further fanned the flames of her desire. To see these other realms that she now knew existed would be beyond anything she could hope for, even though they were all she dreamed of. And perhaps, perhaps being the first mortal to find a way between worlds might even be enough to make others look twice at her. To consider her. As an equal in science. As a potential… something.

She wondered later, if it was the tone, more than the words, that so caught Hemming's attention then. The quality of his gaze seemed to change. It was as if he became somehow sharper and more real for a fraction of a second, as he truly looked at her, sizing up her intelligence and passion and capability. And then he spoke what seemed to Jane to be magic words.

"I am… looking for an opportunity." His words were carefully measured, as if only part of the truth was ever to be privy to her ears. "An opportunity I think you have just given me, Doctor Foster. I have a great deal of power and wealth, and I believe such assets might be valuable in your endeavours. So I would propose a mutually beneficial arrangement. My assets in return for your research into the ways between worlds. A fair deal?"

To his credit, Hemming didn't even blink, let alone reconsider his offer, when Jane dropped her champagne glass onto the floor.

* * *

In the flustered moment of broken glass and spilt champagne, Hemming had somehow slipped away. Jane couldn't find it in herself to blame him. She was so terribly awkward, especially since meeting Thor. Keeping herself grounded in the waking world had always been tricky, but now it was even more so. The promise of greater, grander things, of other worlds that existed and waited for her to find a way into, was almost too much to bear. The idea that her own mortal mind had caught some fragment of the truth was humbling and empowering all at once. If she had been a bit single-minded before, she had doubled in intensity now.

Jane didn't really fit into normal society, and even the scientific community had its limits. As she had predicted, her presentation could barely be processed as a success, and the aftermath of the conference was merely a melancholic return to solitude and obscurity. A small part of her had clung to that crazy moment where all had seemed possible – funding for her research, possibly at a scale she had barely hoped to reach. The better part of her had dismissed it as something too good to be true. She had tasted that forbidden fruit before, not so long ago, and dismissing such things was slowly becoming easier.

Thus, it was a week after the conference when Jane first realized that Hemming's offer had been real. The realization took the form of a very large number written on a very small slip of paper, which came by courier in the middle of the day. "Fenrir Holdings" had sent her a cheque for more money than Jane had ever had at one time. It came with nothing but a note that read: "I trust you will use this wisely, but do not hesitate to ask for more. Aldric."

She had stared at the courier in shock, a hundred questions on her lips, the first perhaps being how exactly she was supposed to contact this Aldric who seemed to be taking on an almost mythological shape in her life (and this she was familiar with). Instead of answers, the courier had shrugged at her questioning eyes. "I just deliver stuff," he said, one rough hand removing the ball cap he wore as he shifted uncomfortably under the New Mexico sun, his dark coloured uniform offering him little relief. "'Fraid I can't answer any questions 'bout it."

Jane was left on the doorstep of her makeshift lab with a slack jaw and wide eyes. She looked down at the cheque, only to find her eyes suddenly scanning the horizon line. If this much was possible, maybe… she shook her head. Immortal gods don't really keep promises to unknown scientists, she repeated in her head for the millionth time. Even as she amended the mantra to include clauses about how Asgardians aren't really gods and random wealthy men can suddenly hand you impossible, personal cheques.

* * *

It wasn't for another month that Jane really paused and wondered at Aldric Hemming's motives for funding her research on such a massive scale. In a way, she felt almost scared to look such a gift horse in the mouth. Hemming had given her enough money to go wherever she needed, to access whatever equipment necessary, to find what she needed to cement her theories. It was even enough to bolster her when SHIELD had coming knocking in the dark of night. They had requested, in barely respectful terms, that she join their research team. They promised her funding and a lab and access to things confidential, at the low price of her freedom and her ability to publish her findings. With a tight smile, Jane told them that she could, in fact, refuse.

Hemming even seemed to predict the things she would need. Already, there had been a long moment, when she had sat cross-legged on the bed in her trailer, staring in wonder at the email granting her time on the Karl G. Jansky Very Large Array, when she had only just realized that she wanted it the previous day. Apparently he had read between the lines of her research and seen the gap before even she had. It made her wonder, just how intelligent her mysterious investor was, and why he wasn't doing this research instead of her.

In the present moment, Jane leaned back across the warm red steel of her rental car's hood. She stared up at the clear afternoon sky, blithely ignoring the radio telescope array that spread out across the valley before her. Like a lizard, she soaked up the sun, relishing it for the first time in a long time. Her natural habitat was dark rooms and star-filled nights. For so long her work had been theoretical, then done with patched together, homemade instruments. To have access to some of the most advanced research equipment in the world, and to see data (miles and miles of it) spill out, all in confirmation of her theories, was more like a holiday than work. She felt absolutely giddy.

Except for the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach that doorways into other worlds could, theoretically, be used to less than moral ends. Or to vastly commercialized ends. Either was distasteful to her. Either could provide the return on investment a wealthy, intelligent, forward-thinking businessman would be looking for, particularly after investing in a crazy long shot out of New Mexico's desert. It was a thought that chilled her.

"Doctor Foster," the voice pulled her from her reverie, startling her enough to make her topple from the hood of the car she had so casually lain upon.

"Doctor Foster," the voice began again, a hint of amusement colouring the mild displeasure it held, "I really must stop having this effect on you."

"Mr. Hemming!" Jane chirped, guilty thoughts swimming under her skin as she popped back to a standing position, swiping dust off her jeans as she ran a hand hopelessly through her tangled curls. "I… really didn't expect you here. I mean, the last time I saw you…"

He looked about ready to laugh at her, those dark eyes dancing as his thin lips tweaked into a smirk. "Was at the conference, when I promised you large sums of money in return for your research. A deal I've followed through on. I'm merely checking up on my investment."

Jane stared at him for a long moment. "In person?" she replied dumbly, her suspicions and the nagging, chilling feeling from before his arrival choking coherent thought. If all her work was going to be for the sake of… invading another planet… she just wasn't sure she could do this. Better to work for SHIELD, with their triple top secret labs and hidden research projects, than to be an accomplice to.. whatever it was Hemming had planned for those other realms she might unlock the doors to.

"In person," he hummed in agreement, running a hand down the hood of Jane's car, as if taking the measure of the machine. "Unless you are offended by my sudden appearance?" he retorted, a careless note to his voice, even as his dark eyes pierced her own.

"No… not at all," Jane stuttered, "I just… I'm not sure why the crazy theories of a fringe scientist are worth a personal inspection?"

"Because you interest me, Doctor Foster," he replied, "You and your theories. They are unique among humankind, which suggests that you must also be unique in some way. Figuring out such mysteries is not the sort of thing that one sends an assistant to do."

Jane stared at the man for a long moment, drinking in the lithe shadow he was in the golden sunlight of late afternoon. He was remarkably pale, she realized, seeing him in the light of day. Despite the dust and the desert, he still wore a suit that seemed to be of better quality than anything she had ever owned, especially as it was failing to gather any dust at all. His features were sharp, almost angular, and seemed capable of being both intensely severe and brilliantly warm and open. There was no doubt at all that he was handsome, perhaps even more so than she remembered from the night of the conference.

"How did you even get here?" she asked finally, ignoring what she figured must be some sort of eccentric compliment, as she gazed about, trying to identify what vehicle could possibly sneak up on her so completely.

A dismissive hand gestured at a black Maserati which Jane could have sworn had not been behind her own, less formidable Ford just a moment before. "How did I not hear that creep up?" she murmured, half to herself.

"You were deep in thought," Hemming replied, gaze fastened upon her. "Thoughts which, I imagine, have to do with what you really want to ask me."

Jane swallowed hard, letting her eyes gaze out over the array. There were many things she wanted to ask this man. She had googled him, out of curiosity. He didn't really seem to exist. His company, yes. Him, not so much. Seemingly wary of the lime light, he was a mystery. A mystery who could predict her needs and seemed to appear from thin air. If her life hadn't become strange in the months before she had met Hemming, she might even have been alarmed. Now, she was only suspicious, and curious as to how much he would really be willing to tell her.

"Why are you interested in my research?" she said suddenly, before she could rethink the wisdom of it. "What do you plan to do with doors between worlds, if I can even find them?"

He shook his head, as if momentarily disappointed. "Predictable," she thought she heard him say, as he leaned against the hood of her car beside her. "Imagine the universe," he said softly, a single, pale hand reaching out into the space before them. "Endless worlds, endless possibilities. A hundred million places to explore. And one, just one, might offer something greater. Something beyond imagining. Wouldn't it be enough to be able to be one of the first to see it?"

Jane narrowed her eyes. Suspicions multiplied. The words were right, but his tone was nearly bored, as if he were reciting a script rather than expressing a passion.

"No?" he bit, his smirk widening as he turned his head to regard her. "A beautiful story not enough to keep you content?" His smirk lapsed into a toothy grin. "Perhaps I want what those worlds might have to offer. Or is that what you fear? That you might be the one who opens the doors to the destruction of other worlds? That you might go down in the history of the universe as the harbinger of the universe's destruction?"

Jane felt herself pale. It was everything she feared, served up with a dose of haughty condescension. Hemming couldn't be trusted, she could see this now. He was so much less a gentleman than she remembered. Then again, perhaps she had seen only what she had wanted to see. Maybe he had always been this obvious in his desires.

"If that is all you fear, Doctor Foster," he continued on, "Then you can put your mind at ease. Even if I did desire the destruction of worlds, I would not let you take so much as a footnote in it. If I truly desired to rule the cosmos, no scientist would be remembered as the one who put me there."

Jane shifted awkwardly, more confused than ever about Hemming's true intentions. "So you _don't_ plan on doing harm with whatever doors I might find?" she said finally, her voice surprisingly firm in her ears.

This time it was her turn to break him from thought. He looked at her as if he had not expected her to still be at his side, as if he had expected an entirely different image instead. "No," he said after a long moment. "I would not do harm with whatever doors _you_ find, Doctor Foster."

Jane looked at the man hard for a long moment, judging the truth of his words. He looked at her with an almost lazy surprise as he lounged against the car. His dark eyes (what were they? Green? Blue? The colour of the ocean during a storm?) seemed unfocused, gazing almost through her. She stood up a little taller and jutted out her hand. "Then call me Jane," she urged, "No one calls me Doctor Foster. At least, no one used to. And truthfully, I'm not used to it. I prefer Jane."

"Jane," Hemming turned her name over his tongue, his eyes focusing back upon her with a trace of surprise in their depths. "Alright, Jane, then you must call me Aldric. Only fair, yes?" His smirk had returned, his voice once again taking on a tone that seemed to send warm shivers down her spine. It was enough for her to pull her hand back into her own space before even letting him touch it. It wasn't right for a voice to do such things when only moments before one had decided not to trust its owner.

"Alright, Aldric it is," Jane agreed. "So tell me, Aldric. What actually brought you all the way out here?"

"I already told you," he slouched against the car hood, "I'm checking up on an investment." His eyes took on a hooded quality.

"And are you happy with that investment?" Jane asked, realizing perhaps a moment too late the possible connotations of her statement.

Those hooded eyes gazed down upon her. "Truthfully," he said in reply, licking his lips, "I'm not entirely sure what I've gotten myself into."

Jane shrugged, uncertain how she was supposed to take such a comment. "I already warned you it's a crazy idea."

"It's not the idea that I'm uncertain about," he corrected, his tone suggesting a distance or double meaning that Jane had no way of grasping. "I suspect you're closer than any other human on this planet to finding a door between realms."

Jane blinked slowly. "As opposed to what other species?" she asked leisurely. "I highly doubt the squirrels have it figured out."

"No?" he replied, "Perhaps the mice then."

Jane found herself laughing despite herself. She met his surprised eyes with less suspicion now. "There's things you aren't telling me," she said lightly, "I can tell."

"And there's things SHIELD won't allow you to tell anyone, even though you've turned them down and agreed to share all your research findings with your new investor," he countered.

Jane felt the laughter die in her throat. "You know SHIELD?" she whispered softly, hope barely fluttering to life in her throat.

"An incredibly short-sighted organization that thinks it knows best for the entire human race? Yes, I'm familiar. They have secrets that should never be known, and some that should never have been kept."

Jane gave the hope a chance to spread its wings. Darcy had returned to school. Selvig had disappeared, apparently working on something top secret with SHIELD. She had no one she could talk to about the most wonderful, terrible, world-altering events that had ever occurred in her life. Just this much, a shared dislike of the same secret organization, was enough to make her rethink her decision to be suspicious and wary. "So you aren't a big fan of theirs, I take it?"

"You could say that," he looked down at her, his gaze searching out truth in her eyes. "You could also say that I enjoy the idea of taking them down a peg."

"Like stealing a pet scientist from them?" Jane added wryly.

"Like stealing a pet scientist from them," he agreed, nodding his head slowly as a devilish smirk crossed his features. "I don't suppose my new pet scientist would be willing to share the story of just how she ran into SHIELD?"

Jane paused for a long moment, her eyes darting around their silent surroundings. Her car sat perched at the edge of a precipice overlooking the valley and its seemingly unending collection of radio telescopes. Behind her, Hemming's car boxed in the dusty road. Nothing but insect hums met her ears.

"So, I was studying these atmospheric disturbances in New Mexico," she began, sharing a bright-eyed look of mischief with her companion as she shared SHIELD's most classified of information.


	2. Chapter 2

_Well, a huge thank you to those who have reviewed so far - so far the consensus seems to be that I should go for epic and huge. I hope this chapter does Loki justice. I grappled hard with the decision on whether to show things from his perspective, and in the end decided that it would have to happen for the epic and huge story to work. That said, this chapter is shorter than the last - I still hope you all enjoy. And reviews are writer food! Remember this and feed your writers!_

* * *

Jane Foster was nothing like Loki had expected. He knew his… adopted brother. Knew that he preferred his women to have long blonde hair and blue eyes that worshiped him vapidly. Women who lacked any real purpose or drive, who seemingly existed to bolster his ego and warm his bed. It was a simple preference that had remained almost determinedly steadfast throughout the centuries.

But not Jane.

Loki watched the golden light of New Mexico's late afternoon lap at Jane Foster's shoulder-length brown locks. The warm caramel of her eyes sparkled with mirth as she knowingly betrayed the organization that had, by her account, brought nothing but frustration and annoyance to her simple, ordered life that balanced on the edge of obscurity. She was bright, for a mortal. More than that, she was ambitious. Down, below the warm tone of her voice, he could hear the steel edge of anger and disbelief that anyone dare get between her and her research. Research that sought to unlock the doors between worlds, or rebuild the Bifrost. He suspected that either would be acceptable to her, so long as she could be the first to travel through them.

There was something admirable in that. There was something admirable in Jane Foster, if he were to be honest with himself. If there had not been, if she had simply been another of Thor's trophies, she would have found death months ago. He may be unable to do more than project into the Midgardian realm, but a mortal death took little to achieve. Less even, than the minor magics he'd had to weave to create a persona that would be granted access to the conference he had first met her at, so to speak. She did not need to know that he had watched her for months before, weighing the value of her work as he translated Midgardian science into Asgardian magic. Truthfully, she did not know just how near she was to discovering the doors she so sought. If she had magic to work with, she would likely have access to them already. Science was a primitive creature, in comparison; a weaker tool.

"So this robot _thing_, and I only call it that because it looked kinda like one. But it wasn't really, because apparently it worked because of _magic_. If you can believe that. It is pretty unbelievable. I'm still not quite sure how magic relates to science," Jane rambled on. She seemed to be on a definite sidetrack as she began to compare what she had understood of magic to what she knew of science.

"So this robot thing did what exactly?" Loki smiled benignly at the petite human creature. He tried to keep annoyance out of his tone, knowing that this, really, would be the most important part of the story. The rest had been as he had suspected. A man of purely mythic proportions crashes into a New Mexico desert and is found by an astrophysicist (well, is crashed into by an astrophysicist… and perhaps that had been mildly amusing). Said man becomes the interest of a secret government organization who absconds with said astrophysicist's work. Said man also laughingly adapts to Midgardian ways, winning the affection of the astrophysicist. At least, that was what he read in her eyes as she spoke of Thor. A peculiar brightness that suggested wistfulness and amusement along with other things he didn't really care to take the time to decode.

"Right! The robot!" Jane jerked, her brown eyes widening as she caught back up with her tale. "So, apparently this deadly robot has been sent by Thor's brother, who, like I said before, had taken over Asgard while Thor was away, and then lied to Thor about their father being dead. I guess this brother had some sort of vendetta going on, because this was kinda overkill. I mean, his brother is stranded on Earth without his powers, and yet he still feels the need to completely take him out of the picture."

"You would presume to understand the actions and motives of a god?" Loki drawled lazily, cloaking his rage beneath nonchalance.

"Well, yes," Jane replied, looking at him quizzically, "Wouldn't you?" Again, she surprised him. He deigned to look her in the eye, seeing only an honest curiosity in her features. "Well?" she prompted impatiently. "I mean, putting aside that Asgardians would be aliens, not gods, wouldn't you want to understand their motives? I mean, what do they want? How is that different from what a human would want? Is it different at all?" Jane shook her head, her brown curls trembling around her earnest face. "I have so many questions! And… Thor seemed so human. I can't really imagine that his brother would be that different. I mean, brother, right? From a genetics standpoint he couldn't be that different."

"You haven't done your research then, I'm afraid." Loki replied, letting his gaze drift into the distance. He looked at the radio telescopes instead of the human, with her painfully trite logic. "If you actually read the old legends, you would know that Loki isn't really of Asgard."

And wasn't that a bitter pill to swallow? That these mortals knew of his origins before he had? Or perhaps the layers of Odin's lies hurt more. He remembered encountering suspicions about his origins among the mortals before, when they were far simpler. The stories of primitive creatures should not have pulled at him so, but they had spoken to some strange otherness within him. The difference he had always felt. So he had listened, and what he had heard had terrified him, as young as he was then.

It had taken Odin's own words to clear away the doubts. "Primitive suspicions and fantastical stories!" Odin had proclaimed, when Loki had finally dared to broach the topic with him. "Just look at the stories they tell about me!" he had laughed, his face nearly red with mirth. Or perhaps red with embarrassment at having been caught in his lies, Loki thought now. It had stung to have been lied to about his origins. It stung worse to have remembrances of times when the truth could have been told and it had not.

"Are you… okay?" Jane interrupted his tortured memories. "You look… kinda pale. I mean, more pale." She paused, "I promise the robot thing didn't destroy Puente Antiguo. Somehow, probably more magic, Thor managed to get his powers back, and he destroyed the thing. SHIELD took it, I think, for study. They probably have about ten ways to destroy it again, by now."

She was looking at him rather closely now, "But you aren't really worried about my story, are you?" Her eyes were narrowed. "Asgard isn't planning an attack, if that's what you're thinking. We don't need to.. preemptively strike at them."

Loki rolled his eyes. As if this tiny, utterly pathetic human could begin to comprehend what bothered him. "I'm sorry," he said smoothly, shaking his head as if to clear a distant thought. "I'm afraid I missed that last bit. Remembered something important. It's no matter now."

And a shiver of delight ran down his wicked spine at the look she gave him then. Part disappointment and part outrage. It was possibly the most amusing look he had seen in many months. Not that that was unsurprising, all things considered. He was attempting to mount a force with which to take over an entire planet; such negotiations didn't leave much room for mischief.

"I was saying how Thor somehow regained his powers and destroyed the robot thing," Jane said flatly, displeasure tucked into the corners of her lips. "And then he went back to Asgard. Had to, I suppose, to stop his brother from going through with whatever crazy plan he had concocted."

"So this 'Thor' is the reason your heart is so set on finding these doors between worlds," Loki summarized, "and is the reason SHIELD won't let you publish."

"Well," she began, the thoughtful look in her eyes again, "You're half right." She smiled at the critical look he gave her. "SHIELD definitely doesn't want me publishing about the fact that aliens are real, look like us, and used to be our gods. But I was looking for the doors between worlds, the Einstein-Rosen bridges, long before Thor dropped out of the sky. He was just… proof of the theory. And proof that the theory can be made to work. That… well, if Asgardians can do it, why can't we?"

Her voice held a note of longing, and Loki was suddenly confused. What was it she longed for? Thor or… the Bifrost? "But you love him," he said finally, grasping at the words and the idea on which his original plans concerning her had hinged.

He had not expected her to laugh. It was a short, tense chirp of a laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

"Love?" she demanded, "Whatever gave you that idea?" She was smiling at him then, all traces of her earlier displeasure gone. In fact, she looked as though she had gotten the better of him. "A bit of a closet romantic, huh?" she continued. "I knew him for three days… if there was anything I loved, it was the fact that I was right! All those years on the fringes of academia, all those years being the crazy outcast, and here, suddenly, proof! I was right. They were wrong. Boom," she smacked the palm of her hand down upon the hood of the car they both leaned upon. The dull metallic thud punctuated her words as she paused. "And then SHIELD took it all and limited what I could publish, leaving me once again the laughingstock of the scientific community because I dared to publish findings that had huge," she banged the hood of her car again in frustration, "friggin' holes in it."

She turned her head then, her hair falling across her face. Even with her features obscured, Loki realized he was seeing her more clearly now than he had yet. She was definitely not his brother's usual sort. She wasn't even close to being hung up on him. She was hung up on being accepted by this 'scientific community' of hers, on the idea of proving everyone else wrong, and her own idea right.

It hit just a little too close to home for his comfort. "That is… an interesting story," he said finally, awkwardly. "I should leave you to your work."

A tiny, hiccupped laugh was Loki's first warning that Jane was actually emotional. "Yeah, I… I'm sorry," her voice was small. "Just, uh, don't mention it to anyone, okay? SHIELD would know who told and you'd probably never hear from me again. Which, you know, wouldn't be a good use of your investment." Her face remained hidden from view, the tilt of her head keeping him from seeing her. "So yeah, you should probably…" a small sniffle, "go. Cause you probably have way more important things to do," another sniffle, "Than listen to a crummy pet scientist complain about how she's never going to fit in or be accepted. And, really, that's a good thing, for you. Cause you'll be the only one who profits from me finding the stupid doors."

Loki felt frozen to the spot. Was the mortal… crying? Were his hands more than simple projection, he might have felt the trace of a desire to touch the creature's shoulder. To determine if it was quite well, of course. He watched her head turn very slowly as she dabbed her eyes with the backs of her hands. "Cause I will find them," she said, her voice terribly firm as she finally looked at him, her eyes bright and soft with moisture. "You can bet on that."

"I don't doubt it, Miss Foster," he heard the words fall from his lips before even he had time to plan them.

"It's Jane," she corrected, the terribly bright and firm and fierce look falling away in an instant, "Just Jane."

"I should go," he replied, his eyes still vainly searching for any trace of that look that might have remained. For a moment, though she would never know it, he could have sworn that he had found someone who shared his ambitions. But perhaps not. She was only mortal, after all.

It was easy magic to make the projection of himself move into the projection of the car he had conjured upon Jane's insistence that he needed a means by which to get to wherever she was. Even easier to make the entire thing appear to drive away. Less easy to disregard Jane's perplexed look as she watched the seemingly real image travel away from her.

"Really not getting how I missed that thing drive up behind me," he heard her say to the wind, shaking her head.

It was enough to reawaken the smirk on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

_So I opted for rapid update over extended chapter length. Hope you all enjoy! _

* * *

The next time she saw Aldric Hemming, Jane was only half aware of seeing him at all. She was walking down a busy sidewalk, her feet leading the way as her brain grappled with the implications of being asked to give a talk at the University of New Mexico, scheduled for that evening. She felt out of place in Albuquerque. Too many people heading in too many directions, and the night sky obscured by the bright lights of a city of half a million. She would be happy to get back to Puente Antiguo, where she could finally take the time to synthesize the data she had gathered at the Very Large Array and in the library at the university. Being asked to give a talk on this, her last night in the city, had been a strange and unexpected experience. After stumbling (badly) over the invitation, she had finally babbled a yes, and then proceeded to spend most of the night creating the perfect Powerpoint. Which was why she was currently in search of the most caffeinated coffee the city could offer, even as she trembled with excitement over finally being recognized enough to be asked to give university talks.

But none of this was quite enough to smother the reaction her brain had to seeing the dark, shadow-like figure of her still-mysterious benefactor. "Wait!" she heard her voice call out after the figure, just moments after he had passed her, on the opposite sidewalk. She darted out into traffic, her eyes widening rather suddenly as she dodged a taxi cab and several cars whose drivers deigned to swear at her for leaping into the street in Uptown. "Mr. Hemming!" she cried out, ignoring the cars and finishing her less-than-wise dash into the street.

There was a slight incline of his head, and a slowing of his pace, as Jane brushed hurriedly past some afternoon shoppers. "Aldric!" she called again, her voice only slightly breathless as the mad dash caught up with her (only slightly) out of shape body. "Aldric," she said again, her hand reaching for the shoulder of his dark wool business suit as she came within a few feet of him.

In that very instant, he spun on his heel, leaving Jane teetering for balance as she slammed her left foot down, grounding her inertia. "Miss Foster!" he replied warmly, his expression one of surprised delight, "Imagine seeing you here, in Albuquerque, when my millions are funding your research at state of the art research facilities out in the desert."

Jane blushed, feeling rebuked, though she wasn't sure why. He was funding her, not dictating her exact whereabouts at all times. "I've been doing some research at the University," she heard herself explain apologetically. "Really, your investment is not going to waste. I just needed to check my math…"

His smirk cut her off. "You aren't actually upset, are you?" she clued in.

The man tossed his dark hair back and laughed at her expense. "Not at all, my dear Jane," his eyes twinkled with mischief, "But I do love your reactions to the things I say."

"It's an improvement over a coughing fit and falling over, I suppose," she shrugged amiably. "I'm just going to go crawl into a hole now."

"Crawl into a hole?" he parroted, amusement lingering in his eyes. "Why ever would you do that when you have a talk to prepare for this evening?"

Jane let her eyes bug out slightly at this. "How did you…" she began, suddenly wondering just how big the audience was going to be at this talk.

Hemming just stared at her, one brow raised, "I keep an eye on my investments, remember?"

All in all, he did seem to be in higher spirits than he had during their last conversation. His eyes were bright with amusement as he teased her, and Jane couldn't help but feel it was an improvement over when last she had seen him. Then, his eyes had held a deep-seated glower for well over half the conversation… and then there was the part where she'd gone soft and _cried_ in front of him. At least, she sighed softly, at least he knew she took her research seriously. That it meant something to her.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he said softly, his dark eyes watching her carefully now.

Jane realized her sigh must have been audible. "Just… really need coffee," she admitted. "Don't suppose you would be interested?"

Which was how Jane ended up explaining how coffee beans were produced to Aldric Hemming while standing in line at a Starbucks. "So all the coffee we drink is actually originally from the berries of just two species. All those blends," Jane gestured at the wall of coffee, "All those varieties of coffee. And just two species."

"Fascinating," Hemming replied drily, his fingers drumming lightly on his wrist.

"Not a big coffee drinker, huh?" Jane realized. "I forget that not everyone on the planet relies on it the way I do." She smiled at the barista as she ordered her beverage, "It's kinda my secret weapon."

The barista smiled back at her, eyebrows raised conspiratorially at Hemming, where he stood behind her, the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. "I wish it worked as well for me," she murmured wryly, winking at Jane.

Jane felt a faint blush rise on her face, studiously avoiding looking in Hemming's direction as she stepped lightly down the counter to where her drink awaited her. She paused as she gathered up her precious coffee, turning to search for a place to sit, only to find herself face to chest with the cause of her blush. "Oh," she gasped, coming up short as she struggled to maintain hold of the cardboard cup in her hands whose contents seemed to want nothing more than to pour themselves upon the expensive suit of the man who currently towered over her. "How did you get yours so fast?" she exclaimed, looking at the cup in his hand with the surprise she felt at his proximity.

"Preferred service?" he quipped, peering down at her with the amused look that Jane was starting to think he had reserved specifically for her.

Jane stole a glance back at the barista, who seemed momentarily flustered. "Right," she admitted in defeat. Why shouldn't gorgeous, ridiculously wealthy men reap the benefits of their station? She shook her head then. It wasn't really fair for her to judge, after all, she was benefiting from Hemming's generosity. If she was really so against gorgeous, wealthy men, she shouldn't be accepting their money. Then again, Jane found herself thinking, her eyes darting back to her companion, maybe the strange feeling that had darted through her gut wasn't about power or privilege. Maybe it was… jealousy.

Jane felt her eyes widen slightly at the implications of this new thought. She didn't actually have a thing for Hemming, did she? Jane let him guide her towards a small table near the far edge of the coffee shop, and watched him settle gracefully into the seat which afforded the best view of the room. She sat across from him, suddenly feeling nervous and shy, like a teenager being forced into conversation with their secret crush. It was embarrassing to even consider the possibility of her harbouring feelings for this man, wasn't it?

Jane spent a long moment observing him. His dark hair was combed back, longer than she normally expected men to wear it. He was tall, but slender enough that he didn't seem to fill a room the way other tall men she had known did. Instead, he seemed to melt into the shadows, his bright eyes alert to every motion in the room. Yet, calculating, she thought. He seemed to be assessing everything and everyone in the space, and she couldn't shake the feeling that he was finding it all rather… wanting. The sharp lines of his face suggested something akin to displeasure, or maybe it was just arrogance. There wasn't a lot to find… well, loveable.

Jane took a long sip of her coffee, ignoring the heat of it against her tongue. Hemming's eyes flashed back to her, as if suddenly noticing just how long she had been silent. His gaze had an almost icy intensity, and for a moment, Jane felt an imagined chill run across her spine. He looked entirely too serious and severe.

Jane stuck out her tongue at him. It was just the tip of her tongue, and she did it rather quickly, but there it was. She was nothing but a kid in her heart of hearts, and for a moment, Hemming's expression seemed to reflect the sentiment. Then an almost miraculous transformation occurred.

It started in his eyes. The mischievous twinkle she had begun to actually appreciate melted the dark intensity that had lingered there before. The lines of his face seemed to soften as his lips tweaked themselves into a smile that seemed to light up the entire room around them. And his laugh again. It carried an almost musical note that caused eyes halfway across the room to lose focus and break into smiles. To Jane, it felt like something had caused her heart to find a new location somewhere in the back of her throat, where it proceeded to find new rhythms to beat.

"I forget sometimes," he said finally, his entire being lapsed into a relaxed state, "That humans are, as a whole, little more than children."

Jane scrunched her face up, realizing something. "You know its weird the way you say 'humans' when you mean people, right?" she pointed out.

"Do I?" he replied lazily, seeming to lean further back into the comfortable-looking chair he had selected, "English isn't actually my first language, you know."

"Really?" Jane felt her entire body straighten in interest. In the few times she had met Aldric Hemming, he had never actually volunteered a single piece of personal information, and she didn't want to miss an opportunity to drag something out of him. "What is?"

"Swedish, I suppose," he replied, wrapping both hands around the coffee cup he seemed loathe to put down. "Or maybe Norwegian. It's hard to say really."

"Hard to say what?" Jane asked without pause, "Which you learned first or which one you learned? I mean, usually people know which language they speak."

He looked at her oddly for a moment, as if what had been hard to say didn't fall along either of those lines at all. "Which I learned first," he supplied finally, some of his previous warmth cooling.

"So you're from Sweden then, originally?" Jane continued, pushing for as much as she could get, even though he seemed to find the topic of himself rather distasteful.

"Not exactly," his lips twitched into a trace of a smirk, "But that would be close enough."

"Which is why you're so big on Norse mythology?" Jane supplied, connecting the depth of knowledge he'd betrayed in their last conversation with the name of his company.

"You could say that," he agreed noncommittally. "You could also say I had much of it forced upon me."

Jane smiled, "What, your family forced you to listen to Norse bedtime stories?"

"Something like that," he replied flatly, disinterest in his voice.

Jane paused, "There's not much information about you online, you know." She watched him carefully, feeling like she was treading on thin ice, "Or your family."

"Perhaps there is not much I wish others to know," he replied snappily, though his eyes seemed to deflect most of the question.

"Family a touchy topic then?" Jane heard herself saying, even though the answer seemed terribly obvious, even to her.

He blinked long and hard, staring at her now with that cool gaze of his, "You have no idea."

Jane let her eyes fall to her cup. She focused intently upon it, staring at the white plastic lid. "I lost my family," she said simply, offering the information as a token of peace. "My parents died when I was young and… my mentor - he's the one who took me in when they died - he's kinda just disappeared."

"SHIELD?" he offered, just a little too quickly.

Jane's head shot up, catching the knowing look in his eyes before he slammed that door shut. "I thought so," she replied lightly. "And I knew you were involved with them somehow, so don't feel like you've betrayed any huge amount of information. I already did _that_, remember?"

The expression Hemming wore now could only be described as amused. "I doubt I'm involved with them in whatever manner you've concocted, but yes, I do know something about the projects they work on. And of who works on those projects, to a degree."

Jane nodded, satisfied to finally have confirmation on Eric's whereabouts. "Is he alright?" she asked, finally unable to hold the fears in any longer.

"He seems deeply involved with the project SHIELD has given him," he admitted.

"But is he alright?" Jane pressed. "Is he eating and sleeping and doing the things he forgets to do when he's really wrapped up in something?"

"That I couldn't say," he replied carefully. "You care that deeply?"

Jane felt suddenly rather small. The disappearance of her mentor had been a nagging worry and fear for months now. She had known, somehow, that SHIELD had been behind it, but it stung to know that whatever it was kept him from giving her so much as a phone call. So much of her life had been spent alone, it felt lonelier still to not have Eric in her life.

"I miss him," she said finally, curling inwards as she berated herself for once again showing herself to be so weak in front of this man. "He's quite literally the only family I have… and I don't have all that many friends either."

The silence that met her was almost chilling. For a moment, she felt absolutely miserable. So much loneliness pressed in upon her, it was no wonder people kept their distance. They were probably afraid they would catch it from her.

"My family and I… are not on speaking terms."

The words echoed across the icy miles of space that seemed to exist between them for a moment. Jane felt as if something somewhere had begun to thaw. She dared to peek at her companion. His dark eyes were fixated on the coffee cup he still held clenched in his long, elegant fingers. "And I do not have many… friends… either," he continued.

Jane felt a tiny smile spread across her lips. "You have me," she heard her voice offer sweetly.

She was rewarded with an almost incredulous stare as his gaze lifted from the coffee cup to her. "I suppose... you have me as well, Jane Foster," he replied slowly, the words seeming to take great effort.

"Well," Jane giggled lightly, "That's settled then, isn't it?" She looked absently at her cell phone, checking the time. A sudden knife of panic slipped through her gut. "I have to go," she said quickly. "My talk starts in under two hours and I haven't even finished figuring out what to say!"

"You spent all night working on your presentation, what could you possibly have left to plan?" Hemming said drolly, shaking his head.

Jane froze. "How… how could you possibly know that?" she asked, her voice little more than a gasp of breath.

Hemming rolled his eyes at her, "You seem the type, and the shadows under your eyes confirmed it."

Jane bit her lip, feeling unutterably foolish. "Right," she said, stretching the vowel sound out before popping the 't' in the word.

"Did you sudden suspect me of spying on you, Miss Foster?"

Jane felt her entire face flush. "I need to go," she repeated dumbly, leaping from her chair and feeling all arms and legs as she did so. "It was really nice to run into you. Uhh, good talk. We should," she backed away from the table, eyes everywhere but him, "Definitely do this again sometime." Jane scrambled out of the coffee shop, wondering just how ridiculous a scene she could possibly make. The sound of Hemming's laughter following her out seemed to haunt her for the rest of the night, even through the applause that followed her first successful scientific talk.


	4. Chapter 4

_I'm a bit in shock over how this story seems to be writing itself. I have a grand design (much greater than this, the introductory part of the story), and I sit down, wondering how on earth I'm going to spin an entire chapter from Loki's perspective without jumping too far forward in the story. Suddenly, its hours later and I have over 2500 words that don't even cover what I thought they would. I hope you enjoy…_

* * *

Loki stood motionless on the edge of space. Shrouded in the endless night that existed in this place between places he currently lingered in, his mind wandered out across the realms. Though his physical being remained perched on rocky ground, starlight reflecting off the metal of his armour, he travelled freely. Much of his time was spent focused on Midgard, the world chosen for invasion, but not all. There were other realms that contained far more interesting inhabitants and diversions, though he dared not reveal himself anywhere he would be recognized. He was becoming used to a shadow existence, spent watching and waiting… and remembering. It was becoming such that his diversions with Jane Foster were beginning to feel like respite.

The godlike figure turned his eyes blindly from one world to another, each haunting him with memories and half-forgotten adventures. Perhaps he had lived too long already. It was possible that there was something to the painfully short lives of Midgard's mortals. Living only one life path, remembering less than a century's worth of memories. Maybe it was freeing. Certainly it would be simpler. As it was, he felt nearly ancient, when in truth he was still young compared to many of the Asgardians he had grown up with. Still young compared even with those who were… his real people.

The dull ache of betrayal had already hardened into what felt to him like armour. There was no going back; no possible way to return to what had been lost. Even if there had been, he could not find even the trace of a desire for such a thing within himself. They called him the god of lies, yet it seemed that the greatest lies had been ones told _to_ him, rather than those told by his own lips. The bitterness in his heart festered under the weight of the thousand sleights that became ever more visible in recollection.

The lies stung, though perhaps the logic hurt more. The Allfather had wanted to keep him from feeling different, or so he had said. Wanted to protect him from the isolation his true origins would have bought. Yet all Loki could remember of the life led so far was a feeling of difference and loneliness. It permeated throughout his memories, coloured his perceptions, tainted even the brightest moments of his life. Even with Thor, he had been the lesser. The sidekick to Thor's hero, if he were to put it into Midgardian terms.

It was nowhere near enough for one such as he. It never had been. Yet it had been the pattern for centuries; perhaps even millennia, if he let himself trace back far enough. The wild and wonderful adventures of Odin's sons. Or rather, of Thor and his shadow.

Dark eyes slipped through the fabric of space, watching the dark beings of Svartalfheim, the elves of Alfheim, the lonely dead in the realm ruled by Hel, whom the mortals had so misguidedly attributed as his daughter. Hel was far more ancient than he, and far colder. His gaze stretched farther, into reaches of space not described as realms. He watched beings that seemed beyond even his comprehension. And still he remembered. Too many years spent by Thor's side. Too many years spent under Odin's guidance. Too many years tearing apart at the heart he'd already tried to deny. It was infuriating. It was exhausting. It was not worthy of his attention, and yet it could not be shaken.

At the edge of space, Loki's mind wracked itself for some form of escape.

In a desert in New Mexico, it found some respite.

* * *

Jane Foster was more relaxed this time. A mortified smile at his appearance at the door of her makeshift lab (projected car already summoned nearby), was quickly swept away by a tide of babbled "news" he should apparently find interesting as her investor. She swept him inside, though he was careful to ensure that she never touched him, for her infernal desire to reach out and feel things would eventually catch him in his projected, insubstantial lie if he was not careful. Offering coffee with only half a heart as she regarded the scant amount left in the machine with jealous eyes, she poured out half an encyclopedia's worth of technical terms and jargon than he had only half a mind to decode.

He shook his head, an answer interpreted as meaning she could finish her own stimulant-laden swill, and watched her bustle about the almost utilitarian space that served as both her office and home. Pages upon pages of graphs, tables, and stereoscopic images were placed before him, accompanied by a frenetic diatribe that made barely a lick of sense, as she jumped from one rapid-fire idea to another without consideration as to how she might sound.

It was with a hint of bitterness than Loki recognized that his brain actually found this foolish rushing soothing. Jane's squawking was frenzied enough to distract him from other matters, but meaningless enough to allow him to simply _exist_. Apparently he did not actually hide the scowl that crossed his lips.

"I…" Jane paused, staring at him in sudden shock and recognition. "You're a business man," she said suddenly, surprise and disappointment in her tone. "I must sound like an absolute loon." She calmed then, sliding into a seat at the crowded table she had sat him at. She stayed that way for a long moment, watching him from the corner of her eye, her space at the table adjacent to his own. "You have no idea what anything I've just said means, do you?" she asked quietly, running her fingers up and down the coffee mug she gripped tightly in her hands.

He met the warm caramel of her eyes, which looked almost painfully saddened and alone. "I understand some of it," he said with careful measure, considering something only barely wise, "But I would welcome a clearer explanation. I would try to understand much more." He watched the tiny hint of a smile cross her lips. "But first tell me," he heard himself say, "Have you heard from your dear mentor, Selvig?"

He watched her eyes light up. "I did!" she exclaimed brightly, "And while he can't tell me what he's working on, he did tell me that he has at least been eating and sleeping fairly regularly," she said the last with the hint of a laugh. The news assuaged some tiny part of him that had felt a sudden guilt at her previous sadness over not hearing from her mentor. Perhaps he had played some part in that, exerting even a ghost of control over the man. Perhaps that ghost had forced other things to come to pass. If such things were true, he was not about to admit to them, nor the motivations for such an action. Not even to himself.

"So, where exactly did I lose you?" her heard Jane ask sheepishly.

"About an eighth of a second after you opened the door," he replied casually, wondering if he could channel the correct amount of energy into shuffling the papers before him in a way that would fool a mortal eye into thinking they had been pushed by fingertips.

"Oh," Jane exhaled in something halfway between a sigh and a giggle. "I guess I might as well start from the beginning then?"

"Well, my assumption is that you are working on the Einstein-Rosen bridge," he began, "And that this," he gestured to the haphazard pile of papers she had tossed before him, "Is proof of its possibility and existence." He crossed his nonexistent fingers before him, leaning his chin upon the bridge they formed. "But you and I already know that much, don't we?" he raised his eyebrows at her.

She blushed slightly at his look, though he was uncertain why she did so. Her fidgeting brought to mind how very nervous she was about SHIELD discovering her sharing this information. Fear over her safety, or perhaps over her continued freedom. He wondered which scared her more.

"Well, yes," she admitted finally, pulling one leg up onto the seat of her chair and hugging it to her. "But this is what will let me publish something that won't get ripped to shreds every time I present."

He failed to see why that should be relevant to his designs. "Why don't you instead tell me how close we are to producing our own?" he pushed, curious as to what her limited science would actually grant her understanding of.

She looked a bit deflated now. "We're not," she replied flatly. "The amount of exotic matter needed to create a wormhole is calculable, but the fact remains that we have no idea how to create or harness exotic matter, or what it even is really."

Magic. He wanted to tell her. It was a single word. A single word that could easily betray him. A single word that if said at the right time c_ould_ potentially push Jane Foster into the right direction. _Could_ have her unlocking the doors of space-time within even her limited lifespan. _If _she believed it to be possible. _If _she accepted that her science was a limited thing, acceptable for understanding the universe but not for actually controlling the mechanisms.

"How do you suppose the Asgardians do it?" he asked lazily instead, staring down at the top image, which showed a humanoid figure falling through coloured space.

"Magic," she breathed. Loki raised his eyes to her own, noting the secret hope that hide behind the guise of shame and disappointment.

"Can you do magic, Jane Foster?" he asked, curious as to what her response might be.

She laughed, a sad, hollow sound. "I don't think we have that ability," she said quietly. "I mean, maybe if you believe in fairy tales and myths as having some tiny fragment of truth to them, maybe we could once, but now? Is there even magic on Earth?" she questioned, shrugging her shoulders. "If I knew it was possible, I might…" she cut herself off, her gaze suddenly on everything but him.

"You might… what?" he prompted softly, letting himself turn the puzzle that was Jane Foster over in his mind.

"I might try it," she whispered, her face turned over her shoulder as if to gaze out the window behind her into the distant desert. "Try to find out what magic was, how it worked, what it could do," she trailed off.

"But?" he interrupted her thoughts, pulling her away from whatever reverie had caught her.

"But there is another line of research," she said finally, her eyes returning to his own. "That's what I was kinda… looking into in Albuqueque," she took a deep breath, as if to steady herself. "See, in 1995, these guys, Visser and Cramer, came up with this idea that the universe might already have wormholes in it. You have to buy into string theory, at least a little, but they suggested that negative mass cosmic strings might be holding open holes… in space and time. Wormholes. That one could theoretically travel through, if they could find them."

Loki felt his breath catch in his throat. Could these mortals possibly be that close? A number of them all putting their ideas and observations together to create a thought that described what was reality to him? It seemed… hardly plausible.

Yet Jane looked terribly earnest about it. "I know it sounds crazy," she said, her lips drawn tight, "I mean, you would think that if there were that kind of hole just… sitting around… that someone would have found them. But… think about all the people who just randomly go missing and are never heard from again. Imagine that just… a fraction of a percent of those people might have stumbled into these holes. It's possible. They might exist."

She was staring hard at him now. "The problem is how do we _find_ them? Can we predict where and when they will be in the fabric of space time? Can we then… use them?"

She looked scared, he realized. Scared of what, he wasn't sure. But the fact remained that the very mortal Jane Foster had discovered the very method that he used to slip between realms, if not the mechanism. Though a few Asgardians knew of their existence, even Heimdall could not trace out these doorways. But the idea remained, that if mortal minds could fathom them, could they also decipher how to find and use them, as he had?

"I sound absolutely crazy now, don't I?" her tone was utterly downcast, "You probably don't even want to fund me anymore, hearing this."

Loki stared at her for a long moment before he remembered the charade, with its conjured money (really, Midgardians were ridiculous, reducing wealth to numbers created and fed by machines) and imagined patronage. "No," he started, watching her face fall even further into bleak despair.

For a moment he foundered, before realizing how she had interpreted his sudden syllable. "I mean no, I don't intend to stop funding you," he clarified, uncertain where the faint tremor in his voice came from. She was so close to understanding that which only he understood, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to halt her or help her. He certainly didn't intend to lose his excuse to appear in her life. Not when she was so very unpredictable to observe. So very… the thought was enough to choke him… familiar.

"You don't?" her voice was quiet. Her expression was one of some small forest creature, uncertain on whether to trust. She blinked, very slowly, watching him with a wariness he wasn't used to her showing, "So if I wanted to focus on finding these holes… on how to use them…"

"It's your money, Jane," he replied, his tongue rolling over the familiar form of her name.

"Thank you, Aldric," she whispered.

To Loki, the words felt like a slap in the face. Aldric, she said, when for a moment he had been expecting her to say his name. His real name, rather than the false moniker he had grabbed onto for the silly reason of what it apparently meant in human culture. He grabbed onto the cloak of bitterness and pride that usually resided around his being and pulled it close. Apparently it had begun to fall and he lapsed in his judgment. She was not his equal, this pathetic, tiny, mortal creature. She was barely even worth his time or attention. However close she came to understanding the world he walked in, she could never truly fathom it. She might see the stars, but she would never truly reach them. Nor should she, he concluded.

"I mean it," he heard her say, as if from a distance, "Thank you. A lot of people would think me crazy to want to change gears from the Einstein-Rosen bridge stuff, just when I'm getting to the point where it might even pass as real science." Loki looked at her, observing the slouch of her shoulders as she hugged her raised leg closer to her chest. "I guess I'm just used to being a lonely bird on the fringes of science," she said quietly, seeming to be half talking to herself rather than him.

Even hours later, after fabricating an excuse to escape the closed space wrapped around Jane Foster, he found himself reflecting on the lonely shape she carved. On how very vulnerable she was. On how long that was likely to last, knowing what he did about what was to come.

* * *

_A/N: I want to thank the Wikipedia article on "wormholes." Everything Jane says about Visser and Cramer is true. Her conjectures on their existing and usability are my own._


	5. Chapter 5

_Okay... don't get too used to these rapid-fire updates. I'm currently out of work and broke, so I've got nothing to do but sit around and write down the daydreams in my head. But if that changes, so will update frequency. Hopefully, it changes..._

* * *

Jane's nervous hands attempted to smooth the rouched silk of the emerald green dress that fit her like a second skin. She felt somewhere between giddy and ill, wearing a dress bought by someone else and left, as if by magic (though she hated that expression, now that she knew magic was real), in the rented rooms the university had provided for her. She had seen the dress bag draped across the slightly aged couch before she had even know its purpose. Her head nearly spinning with the events of the past few days, Jane still felt ultimately unsurprised by it all. She dimly wondered if it was possible she had already reached the limit of surprise allotted to one lifetime.

The stillness afforded to her by the anonymity of being a completely new face in a room of what seemed to be old friends and research partners allowed her the sudden opportunity to look back on the whirlwind events that had landed her in the middle of a university benefit being held in Tromso's _Nordnorsk Kunstmuseum_. She hadn't even understood the nature of the museum until she had set foot into the midst of it, wobbling slightly in the heels that had come paired with the beautiful dress and the official university request for her presence at the benefit that very night. Eager eyes drank in the beautiful art on display before rapidly turning to scan the crowd. There was one man she thought to hold responsible for such a turn of events, and she had yet to decide if she wanted to thank him or scold him for thinking that he could simply move her where he wanted.

The invitation to conduct research at the University of Tromso had come seemingly out of nowhere. Yet, there it had been, the university crest's twin ravens staring blankly at her from the crisp paper. The offer was generous, and a single, one-way plane ticket had been folded into the envelope. "Thought and memory," Jane remembered musing as she gazed at the crest. Her fingers had traced up and down the paper, committing the feel of quality stationary to memory. She had been instantly reminded of the email granting her access to the Very Large Array coming only a day after she had realized her need. The link to Norse myth afforded by the university's crest made her think that this was only too likely Hemming at work again, only still a step ahead of her this time. She wondered now, at how that had been all the thought she had needed to pack a bag that very night.

Jane let her gaze run through the crowd again, failing to find the source of her mingled feelings. At the moment, pleasure and mild offense were warring within her breast. She wanted to see him, if only to demand to know why he felt he could send her halfway across the globe, then demand her presence at a prestigious university benefit on the basis of a last-minute donation, and choose her clothes while he was at it. Secretly, she couldn't help but adore the dress, and him (just a little) for thinking her worthy of its elegance. The label sewn within it had told her so much more than she had really wanted to know about how incapable she was of affording such luxury herself.

"Looking for someone?" the silken voice she had permanently enshrined in memory murmured into her ear. She felt the ghost of a breath caress the shell of her ear and felt herself gasp. Had he ever been so near to her? Jane spun, losing her balance in the four-inch heels she would never have picked for herself for the exact fear of this embarrassment.

But instead of falling at Hemming's feet, she found his hands upon her, steadying her at elbow and shoulder. Sound escaped her as she stared up at his bright eyes that seemed to laugh at her fondly. He was evidently in good spirits tonight, and Jane wondered if it would be at all possible to keep him in them, for once. It seemed that every conversation between them turned almost painfully serious.

"Perhaps you were looking for me?" he smirked down at her, hands lingering upon her bare skin far longer than he had any right to let them. Jane found herself frowning slightly. It was entirely unfair that this terribly handsome, apparently brilliant man could effect her in this kind of way. They were _friends_, at most. And even that seemed premised on a half-hearted comment said months ago and half a world away.

Jane felt her gaze harden into a glower, watching with dissatisfaction as his eyes seemed to brighten further, deriving amusement from her distressed state. Then again, she realized distantly, what kind of a man buys ridiculously expensive dresses for a hired scientist? What kind of man finds ways to bully university staff into issuing last-minute invitations to almost unknown researchers who only arrived at the university that same day? Was it possible that this was all his way of telling her that he wanted to see her as badly as she had been wanting to see him? Because really, the content of their conversations seemed to dominate her every non-physics-related thought. It was almost unfair that even though she could count the number of times they had met on one hand, they still ranked as some of the most important moments of her life (and she had met an honest-to-goodness _god_, so really, that w_as saying something!_).

Perhaps he could see the storm of emotion and confusion in her eyes, for he led her out of the crowded reception area and into a smaller gallery filled with paintings of darkened skies and stormy seascapes. His hand never left her elbow, a faint pressure against her skin that guided and supported. Jane considered for moment that it seemed much like how gentlemen led ladies around in movies. The idea left her feeling dizzy. She was no lady. She was a scientist. She had never had all that many fantasies about being treated like a princess, and the last of them had died long ago.

"Why did you buy me a dress?" she heard herself finally demand, only slightly mortified at those being the first words to fall from her mouth.

She watched the corner of his lips twitch, even as his hold on her elbow remained. "I assumed that you would have little opportunity to find something suitable to wear for tonight," he replied archly, "So I ensured that it was taken care of."

Jane blinked slowly, realizing now that it was highly possible that Hemming, himself, may not have been the one to choose the dress. In fact, he may have merely sent some assistant to make a call to ensure that something appropriate be obtained for her. She began to feel just a little foolish. "But why go through that trouble?" she insisted, "It's only because of your unreasonable demands that I'm here at all." She gestured around them hopelessly, feeling like any hope of maintaining his good mood was likely to evaporate in the next few moments. She was awfully good at doing that.

"Unreasonable?" his smirk widened further, eyes dancing in pure delight. "I would have thought that you would want to take advantage of the knowledge I have. In particular, why SHIELD would be attempting to direct your movements across the globe?"

Jane felt her blood run cold. "SHIELD?" she whispered, her knees feeling weak. Suddenly, she was only too happy to have Hemming's hand holding her elbow. At the moment, the firm grasp he had of her seemed like the only thing that was holding her onto the Earth. "How could…" she began, her voice wobbling at the sudden shock of the news. "It's been nearly a year! What could they possibly want?"

Hemming's face betrayed little beyond his obvious enjoyment of the situation. "You didn't suspect, my dear Jane?" he said softly, his face searching hers for a moment before one dark eye brow arched smugly. "Or did you perhaps suspect someone else of plucking at your puppet strings?"

His smile was just a shade too dark for Jane's liking at that moment. She was on the verge of saying something snappy and venomous, if only she could think of such a thing, when his hold on her elbow pulled her lightly. Swinging her across a curved space, he settled her onto a bench, as if he had sensed her weak knees. Anger died on her lips, as she tried to muddle through the sudden overload of information.

"You said you know why they sent me here," she said after a moment's pause, "Why keep me in suspense?"

"Oh, my Jane," he chuckled, "Always right to business. An admirable trait if there ever was one." Jane felt a bubble of anger rise in her throat again, accompanied by the old wariness and fear of SHIELD's overarching powers to strip away her life's work. She let her expression cool as she glared at Hemming. His hand on her elbow still lingered, she noted defensively, wondering what he was playing at. In all the time she had known him, he had never touched her, had even slid sideways out of her grasp. Why now the sudden, almost possessive grasp? A chill ran down Jane's spine as she suddenly realized just how inappropriate a sleeveless gown was for Norway. She had gone from warm and content, if confused, to cold and scared in the space of a few minutes.

He noticed her shiver, even if he had failed to notice her emotions. Jane watched as his gaze became less bright, seeming to focus on her in a more real way. A frisson of displeasure slipped into his expression, even as he shrugged the black suit jacket he wore off his shoulders and slipped it over her own. "They want you out of the way," he said succinctly. "They've moved you for protection."

Jane felt her mouth fall open, though whether it was over the new information or the shocking fact that Aldric Hemming, with all his being ridiculously wealthy and handsome, if enigmatic and often gloomy, had just slipped his jacket over her with all the ease in the world. They would look like a couple, a scandalized voice in her brain cried, as thoughts of SHIELD scattered. He had to know that they would look like a couple. In front of a large number of wealthy, important people.

"A SHIELD installation," he continued, his gaze seeming to grow more distant now that his hand was no longer attached to her arm, "A large, important SHIELD installation, was…"

He seemed to falter on the words, and Jane was reminded that he'd told her once that English wasn't his first language. Or perhaps the news was bad, and he was uncertain how much he could or should tell her. A dawning horror awoke in Jane's gut. "Eric," she whispered.

Her voice seemed to pull him back, and Jane looked at Hemming with deep concern, waiting for the worst. She watched him sigh, "Yes, Eric was there. Whatever happened, he seems to have escaped it unharmed, however, though I believe he has most recently fallen off of SHIELD's radar."

Jane felt her breath catch in her throat. "But he's alright?" she pressed, "He got out? He's… alive?"

"Yes," Aldric Hemming's eyes met hers and seemed to stare a hole straight into her soul. "I can promise you that he is alive."

A breath of relief escaped her. For a moment, the entire world had shrunk to a pinprick. Dark eyes watched her with a trace of something Jane could not place. "I would that someone cared so much for my safety as you do for your mentor's," she heard him say bitterly, his tone almost alien to her ears.

"_I c_are," she heard herself say suddenly, knowing it with full certainty in her heart.

"Because you rely on my funding for your precious…"

"No!" Jane exclaimed, shaking her head with vehemence. "I care about _you_!"

It took a moment for Jane to process what she had actually just said. Out loud. Within earshot of important people who had probably already assumed they were a couple. She supposed that now that the cat was out of the bag, she could, maybe, come to terms with the fact herself. Jane Foster, fringe scientist, cared for the mysterious, aloof, terribly good looking stranger who had offered her large sums to pursue research based on myths and dreams. Put that way, it seemed almost inevitable, she supposed. Like a drugstore romance. Now all that they needed was some sort of wrench in the works. Maybe he was already married. That would be good and dramatic.

Or perhaps, as with all handsome strangers that turned her world upside down, Hemming didn't really care all that much for her. For an instant, Jane felt her thoughts slip back to Thor. Like night to day, she felt herself compare Hemming to her magical god who had fallen from the sky. She wondered if the few scattered hours she had spent with Hemming even added up to three days. If it didn't, she might have to reconsider her theory on how long one had to know someone before developing any sort of feelings. Of course, she had said she _cared_ for him. Friends cared for each other. She had cared for Thor. She dared a glance at Hemming's stunned expression. Alright, she felt herself admit as she took stock of the butterflies in her stomach, maybe it wasn't even remotely like that.

"You… care," he said the words as if they didn't fit together. As if the very nature of the words made them incompatible. His lips bore a bitter smile. "Really, Miss Foster," he said softly, resorting to formality as if to build walls between them, "You, who have met, and maybe loved, the Norse god of thunder, would care for me?"

Jane stared at him for a long moment, battling the urge to insist that she had not loved Thor… just been a little infatuated. There was something bigger riding on this moment, and even she could decipher that much. Why someone like Aldric Hemming would suffer from insecurity was beyond Jane, but the fact that her caring was big news in his world did not failed to impact upon hers.

"I would," she breathed, suddenly wondering why her voice was so completely breathless when they were talking about something as inconsequential as c_aring_. It wasn't as if she was promising eternal love or affection. It had been a statement born of friendship… but even the thought fell flat as she gazed into his almost fathomless eyes. For a moment, she felt like she had a word for their colour finally, something like 'eternity' or 'aurora borealis' or, maybe, 'exotic dark matter.' The moment stretched thin and his attention snapped. Something in his expression had changed. His eyes were almost as bright as they had been earlier, but with something else entirely. Something Jane was almost afraid to name.

Laughing, he pulled her to her feet and leaned in close. "I suppose, if SHIELD saw fit to send you here, you might as well enjoy it, no?"

In a confused daze, Jane let him lead her back into the main hall. Let him hand her glasses of champagne as he guided her through the crowd with almost practiced ease. His eyes had flashed mischief as he ran circles around the head of the history department, winking at Jane as she listened in awe. He had done a similar number on a classics professor who had boasted, within Hemming's ear shot, that he knew nearly everything about Norse mythology. Hemming had been quick to reveal just how little 'nearly everything' seemed to encompass. Faced with any and all faculty attached to physics or space science, he reverted to charming compliments and flattery. It was as if he was trying to make things easy for Jane. Introducing her to anyone she would need to pull strings with and putting them into spirits so high they seemed willing to bend over backwards for him.

It was several glasses of champagne in that Jane finally realized that she was watching him with stars in her eyes. The knowing looks from female professors or upper faculty wives left her feeling dizzy. The sly glances he threw her left her asking questions she was scared to answer. The lingering touches of his hands on her skin, which seemed to linger even longer after he had reclaimed his jacket from her now-warm body, set to work awakening feelings Jane hadn't even considered since Thor had kissed her goodbye beneath a cloud-filled sky.

By the end of the night, Jane found herself wishing that it was not the end of the night. That it would not be several more months before Hemming unexpectedly crashed into her life again. But patterns tend to hold true, and Jane was ready to write off the delirious feeling of his fingertips on her skin as the product of too much champagne and her overwrought imagination.

Sadness suffused her as a black limo pulled up, seemingly conjured by a wave of Aldric Hemming's hand. He leaned into her ever so slightly, his attention falling back to her, even as he wished a good night to those he had spent the evening charming. "My dear Jane," he murmured, pulling her hands into his own, "You have given me a truly wonderful evening."

Jane shook her head, wondering now if the last glass of champagne had been wise. "What did I do?" she squeaked, "You were the one who was all… wonderful in there."

His laugh, his terribly beautiful, musical laugh, filled her ears. "I don't believe anyone has ever called me wonderful before," he replied, his eyes bright with pleasure and amusement.

"That's… a little hard to believe," Jane said sadly, knowing that any number of females that night would have told him the same, "But I'm glad I could make you happy."

His lips pinched into a knowing smirk, "I'll be even happier in a few days, dear Jane," he murmured.

"What happens in a few days?" Jane asked, feeling helplessly wrapped up in a world she didn't really understand.

"You'll see," he said softly, sweeping her hands upwards and gracing them with his lips.

Jane felt a shiver run through her at the touch of his lips. She felt suddenly burning hot and freezing cold all at once. He seemed to linger in the kiss, his eyes peeking up at her all the while as if to watch her reaction. She was certain that he liked whatever he saw, as she watched him wink at her. Unable to move, she let him slip away, disappearing into the limo and into the night. It was a long time before Jane found the strength in her limbs to move. It was even longer before the feeling of his lips on her skin faded.


	6. Chapter 6

_So, if there were actually a normal, standard pattern for perspective changing in this story, then this chapter should belong to Loki. Sadly, it does not. The events of the Avengers movie fall into this chapter, and I flat out refuse to attempt to do what Joss Whedon did a fairly brilliant job of. So you'll get to see Jane's side of the story as she realizes she's been fraternizing with the enemy. Cue evil grin here. If its any consolation, the next few chapters are likely to be mostly from Loki's perspective. So it'll even out. More or less. By the way, my few, scattered reviews asked for an epic, complete with wild and crazy twists and turns. So that's what you're getting._

* * *

Tromso was a delicate mix of new and old, and Jane couldn't help but appreciate it. Even the knowledge that SHIELD had sent her here was doing little to dampen her spirits. Part of her was even considering staying for the full length of the contract offer. The idea of a night that never ended had a strange, haunting appeal after so many years spent in the desert sun.

The day after the university benefit had been spent ironing out the details of her stay at the University of Tromso. From the beginner astronomy class she was to teach to the exact location of her personal office, she was thrilled with the idea of being an actual, honest-to-goodness professor (visiting associate whatever). Under the thrill of this tiny sliver of SHIELD-forced acceptance lay a deeper, more lingering thrill, however. Try as she might, Jane could not shake the sensations that Aldric Hemming had stirred the night before. Internally, she alternated between raging at him for leading her on (for what else could he be doing with an awkward duck of a person like her?) and daydreaming that maybe more impossible things had happened.

Daydreaming about what ifs was not a pastime Jane usually indulged in, and today's flights of fancy were doing nothing to endear the activity to her. Already she had looked like a fool more than once, asking secretaries and assistants to repeat themselves multiple times, until they looked about ready to scratch her eyes out for being so thick. It wasn't her fault, she felt like pleading, the blame for this serious out-of-character moping could be placed squarely on Aldric Hemming's shoulders. It also wasn't like she didn't have a pretty high threshold too. The last man who had managed to spin her around so had been an alien. Though, her brain insisted on pointing out, Hemming seemed far more alien than Thor ever had. An analysis that meant little to Jane as she struggled to focus once more on the detailed fire evacuation plan posted on the back of her office door.

With a trace of wistfulness, Jane let herself take the few steps to her official desk, sinking into the almost-comfortable seat the university provided. It was obvious that the events of last night would not leave her until she had fully processed them. More the pity, Jane couldn't help but think, almost wishing that her overly analytical mind would not attempt to dissect every shared glance and spoken word. Some things were meant to be treasured. Some interactions didn't need to be torn apart looking for ulterior motives. Her heart could not bear the analysis.

After all, she knew what a full analysis would bring her. Nothing but hard truths. She had done this before, with Thor. Cycled through every memory, from smashed coffee cups to her own notebook held in large, strong hands, and had filtered it down to its most salient facts. A promise to return. A promise never fulfilled. Three days that almost assuredly had meant more to her than to him.

It would be the same with Hemming, Jane suspected. She was doomed to find only men from other worlds attractive. Whether they be physical other worlds or just those created by chance and socioeconomic status. And she would be doomed to being forgotten by that sort of man, because what did she really have to offer? Crazy theories about traveling through the space-time continuum?

The truth of it was simple. No matter his strange reactions and what certainly felt like attraction to her, Hemming was a different breed entirely. A dozen jealous eyes had followed them around the room, coveting Jane's place by his side. Every pair of those eyes belonged to someone more beautiful and glamourous and aristocratic than Jane. They could probably hold a conversation without turning to physics or SHIELD too. What wasn't desirable about that?

Jane let her head fall onto the solid wood desk with a heavy thud. There was the flip side of the analysis of course. She didn't just care for Hemming, she had a full on crush going. The sort that if she didn't squash it soon it would likely lead to the same sort of wounded feelings that broken desert promises had led to. Worse, even, if she was honest with herself. If she let her mind wander, the feeling of his lips on the back of her hand haunted her far more strongly than the physical kiss she had been granted by a god.

A strangled, frustrated moan twisted its way out of Jane's throat. She just had a knack for falling for the wrong guy. At least, she found herself thinking, pulling her head onto her folded arms, at least she was really over Thor. Hemming's picking at the topic had made her rethink the hasty packing away of hurt feelings she'd done. Just, apparently not in a way that precluded her from falling victim to his own charms. Jane sighed. At least she'd chosen someone from her own species to fall for this time. She could be thankful for small blessings, she supposed.

* * *

Tromso really was a beautiful place, Jane found herself reflecting after only a few days in the city. Snowy, white mountains seemed to watch over it from across the ocean that surrounded the main island. She had discovered an older restaurant on her first full day, as she had moped around the city, thoughts of a romantic nature clouding her normally scientific mind. Now, a few days later, she'd finally been able to compartmentalize her thoughts away. Life was too short to do the type of research she did. Wasting time pining after anyone was less than useful. That it was the same rationale she had applied to her situation with Thor was a fact to be studiously ignored.

Jane slipped through the heavy wooden door of the older building, her eyes adjusting to the dimmer light inside. It was a fairly quaint establishment, full of wood, and dating back to the early 1800s, if the owner was to be believed. The solid nods of older customers in the room had assured Jane that even the faint embellishments to the tale of the restaurant's history had at least some truth. Today the space seemed fairly empty. A number of wooden tables were scattered through the space, seemingly ignored in favour of the bar by most of the current patrons.

A younger couple, looking like tourists, sat near the back, eating their food slowly as they bickered in what sounded like German. A business man in a plain brown suit sat at one end of the bar staring glumly up at the television that hung above, eyes seeming to be focused on the stock exchange numbers that slid smoothly across the bottom of the screen. "Ack, those Sami's," a grizzled, older man protested from further down the bar, shaking his head at the news that played above the stock numbers, "Jaevla dust!"

"Henrik!" the owner exclaimed, jerking his head toward the doorway where Jane still stood, "Vaer sa snill!"

The older man turned his head to stare at Jane with reddened eyes. His face was deeply lined with wrinkles, and Jane was momentarily reminded of the old men who spent their afternoons in the diner in Puente Antiguo, griping about the fact that the world was no longer as good as it had been in the good old days. She smiled at him, feeling a hint of familiarity, despite the language barrier.

"Unnskyld," the old man replied, giving a terse nod of his head and tipping his beer mug at her.

"He's saying sorry for the language, miss," the owner added, a sheepish smile on his face, "Can't say I figured we'd see you in here again so soon. What was the name again? Fulster?"

"Foster," Jane corrected, "But you can call me Jane. Everyone does."

"Professor Jane, then?" the owner said with a smile, pulling a menu from a stack by the side of the register and walking around the bar toward her. He pulled out a wooden chair from a table near the bar and gestured to her to sit down. "You said you were teaching at the university, yeah?"

Jane flushed slightly. "Really, just Jane," she said with a smile as she settled into her seat. It had been a long day, including her first lecture to a room of first year students who, while fluent in English, were certainly in need of clarification of the jargon she had such a tendency to lapse into. "I haven't had a chance to do much grocery shopping," she admitted to the owner. "I was actually afraid you might have closed by now."

"Me, close when there is still business to be had?" the owner joked, setting the menu before her. "Or before Henrik is ready to leave?" he added conspiratorially, jerking a thumb at the old man.

"He seems like a real character," Jane replied, her voice soft, wary of giving offense.

"He's real, old Norwegian," the owner replied, "But I think, deep down, he's got a good heart."

Jane smiled, pointing at something in the menu that while indecipherable, had been translated to "beef stew" below. "Sami, that's one of the other ethnicities in the city, right?" Jane asked, intrigued by this twist in local politics.

"Yeah," the owner conceded, "But I can't say I pay much mind to the language controversy. It's not good for business to get too involved."

Jane nodded acceptingly, leaning back into the wooden chair that been worn smooth with use. Her eyes strayed up toward the television, where a Norwegian reporter babbled on in words that Jane didn't really understand. Her eyes drifted closed as she took a deep breath. Her life might be lonely, she mused, but it wasn't terrible.

"Stuttgart!" a young woman's voice cried out breathlessly from the far corner of the restaurant. Jane opened her eyes in a flash, watching the young German couple leap from their seats to run up to the bar, their gazes locked on the television above the bar. "Ach du lieber gott," the young man said softly, a hand drawn across his mouth in shock.

Jane pulled her chair out from the table and rose to stand behind the bar, puzzled eyes searching the screen. A crowd of well-dressed people appeared to kneel in a square, cowering in fear from _something_. The camera panned to an imposing figure, dressed in dark greens, golds, and black. Long, pointed horns topped a golden helmet that obscured most of the figure's face. Jane felt her breath catch in her throat. She knew that figure from the books of myth she had poured over in the first months after Thor had left. There was no denying who that figure was. It could only be Thor's brother. The one with the grudge, who was so fond of lies.

"Loki," Henrik spat the name with venom and force.

"Faen," the owner murmured, gazing up at the screen in shock.

"Nei," the old man replied, "Hemming, logner, tyv,"

"What did he say?" Jane interrupted, suddenly certain she had heard something wrong.

The owner didn't look at her as he spoke, his eyes instead trained on the imposing figure on the screen, "He says… he says it is Loki. The god."

"No," Jane struggled against her impatience. "I mean after that. He said… Hemming."

The owner's lips twitched, "It's just an old word. A nickname. Means shape changer." The owner's eyes fell to hers, "In myth, Loki changes shape. A horse, a fish, a seal. Depends on the myth." He read the shock in Jane's eyes as curiosity. "Then he called him a liar and a thief," he said with a faint smile. "I think he thought I called the person the devil." He smiled ruefully, "I'm just amazed that some idiot would dress like that."

"It's no idiot," Jane said flatly, "That _is _Loki." She finally turned her gaze back to the screen, "But where is Thor then?"

She knew the owner's eyes were staring at her in disbelief, but Jane found she couldn't care. Hemming… was an old Norse nickname for shape changer. That… had to be a coincidence, right? She wasn't that dumb. Or gullible. Or completely, utterly stupid. Was she?

With growing horror, Jane watched an old man rise from the fearful crowd. He seemed to say something, though she failed to comprehend what as the Norwegian reporters spoke in rapid words over whatever audio the video may have originally had. Loki, for she was almost certain that this was the being who had sent the Destroyer to her town, seemed to grow taller and darker.

The world seemed to go only more surreal as the video camera shook and turned. A new figure was standing up to Loki now. A figure dressed in stars and stripes and the colours of Jane's home. "Captain America?" she whispered in shock. She watched another figure enter the distant screen, "And… Iron Man?" Jane shook her head, disbelief in her eyes. "This what SHIELD was hiding me from…"

She didn't realize it, but at some point the eyes in the room had turned from the screen to her. The weight of their gazes forced her to acknowledge the shift. She looked around the room at them with sudden uncertainty. "There's nothing I can tell you that won't put you in danger," she said finally, firmly, even though her insides felt as if they had become jello. She thought that she sounded really professional there, for a moment. Almost like she might know or understand why a bunch of superheroes were having a show down with a mythical being in Germany.

Jane let her gaze fly up to the television screen again, catching now the image of the figure being bound and led away by looked to her like SHIELD agents. She hoped for a closer image. She hoped there would not be. Her hopes were ultimately meaningless in the face of the truth. The camera angle changed again, and the screen was filled with a face Jane knew well. Jane felt her heart plummet through the floor. She really was an idiot.


	7. Chapter 7

_Alright, your reviews are starting to give me delighted chills and thrills. I love you all. Herein ends the first part of the story – so, think of this as the calm before the storm._

* * *

Perhaps, Loki couldn't help but think, perhaps if he had actually followed his original plan, things might have gone better. Having a bargaining chip to use against Thor would be the sort of thing that would be most useful in a moment such as this, with his mouth locked shut and his hands bound tight. It would be enough to buy him the freedom needed to escape, at the very least.

The original plan had been perfect. The perfect pawn, her eyes bright with interest in him, just ready and waiting to be used against Thor. SHIELD had even provided the opportunity for him to gift wrap her in his own colours. Of course, then she had to say that she _cared for him_, and apparently that was all it took for him to let perfect plans fall completely apart. Because how could he kidnap her and use her as bait against Thor when she was so pretty in green and earnest in her affection for him?

No, whatever punishment was to be decreed would be deserved. Not for turning against Asgard, or attempting to invade Midgard. Oh no, he would deserve it for being a complete and utter fool, letting a pathetic mortal get under his skin for even a moment. Had he the luxury of moving his mouth, he would have snarled at the stupidity he had displayed. His only consolation was that whatever amount of foolishness he felt would likely be doubled in the mortal in question. Fraternizing with the enemy was generally regarded as treason, after all. He could only imagine just how delightful her expression must have been when she finally put two and two together. Horror, shock, pain. He was certain it would have been delicious.

"Loki," Thor's voice was heavy with sadness and disappointment, his blue eyes wearing anguish like a second skin. The Thunderer had entered the room just moments before, red cape drifting heavily in the stale air. "Why?" he demanded, for what felt like the hundredth time, forgetting again that asking questions was futile when the prisoner could not respond.

Thor came up to the glass of the container SHIELD had decided to place him in once more. This time, Loki had noticed, there were more guards and cameras and deadly looking things pointed at him. The container itself seemed to be an improved design in itself. He supposed that mortals had to learn quickly if they were to learn anything at all in their short lives. He watched the armoured man lean against the glass. He didn't move, didn't meet the gaze of the one he had once called brother.

There was one question weighing heavily on those massive shoulders, Loki could tell, and it brought him no end of amusement. Thor's eyes had betrayed the concern for awhile now, even though he seemed to prefer to claim that any and all concern was for his poor, wayward, adopted brother. It was enough to make anyone with sense to see the truth feel sick. Then again, lies and betrayal were not new to Loki, and perhaps they were still, to Thor.

Loki waited for a long moment, knowing that Thor stood outside still. He wondered if this, finally, was the moment Thor would dare to ask it, the question that had been on his tongue since the first. "Loki," the voice was tired, "Did you…"

If it had been possible, behind the terrible gag he wore, Loki would have grinned. It was indeed the moment for Thor's most pressing question to be asked. He didn't bother to conceal the glee in his eyes as he finally raised his head.

"Did you see Jane Foster?" Thor finally asked.

The silence in the room was palpable. Loki just stared at Thor with eyes that danced with mischief. There were a thousand things he would love to say, but he couldn't help but feel that the silence was just as fitting. For Thor's expression collapsed from something stoic to something decided fragile. "Did you harm her?" he demanded, his voice gruff with what Loki identified as fear. A heavy fist slammed against the glass of the cage and Loki felt the jump in readiness on SHIELD's part. It was a brilliant moment for him, as he held Thor's helpless gaze, prolonging the torture.

Thor sighed heavily, letting his gaze slip away. "I should never have let her come in harm's way," he said, guilt pouring through his words.

Loki rolled his eyes at that. It was terribly evident that Thor knew little of Jane Foster. She was completely capable of throwing herself into harm's way all on her own. And of getting back out of it, he thought blackly, remembering her warm caramel eyes as they melted his resolve. It was why she was still free, after all. Her safety was her own doing.

"Perhaps I should visit her," Loki heard Thor continue, though whether it was addressed to him or simply the man thinking out loud, he couldn't say. It was a tempting thought, however. One that perhaps held some merit. Or at least entertainment value. And that was something his foreseeable future would likely lack

* * *

She had left Tromso, he had noticed with amusement. She was back in her familiar desert, likely buried beneath her research, if she could bear to touch it knowing that he had been behind her most recent findings. It seemed a bit like torture, to him, to return to the place where so many things had begun. Then again, Jane Foster hadn't really seemed like the type to cut and run.

He watched her for a long time before actually projecting into the space she filled. It was near sunset, and she was sitting on some sort of rocky outcrop, her eyes trained upon the far distance. Her brown curls were bound severely back, though a few had escaped and brushed across the edges of her pale face in the desert breeze. The reddish light of the setting sun illuminated the sand and stone with a red that reminded him of spilled blood, though nearly everything reminded him of that these days.

He watched her rub a hand over her eyes, and wondered if she was wiping away tears or merely weariness. She had a notebook balanced against one folded leg, a pen gripped in her hand as she chewed the free end. She looked like she was deep in thought, and for a moment, Loki felt the peace of the scene creep into his bones. He had felt it before, the calm that came when he was in her presence. And he shook it away now, as he ultimately had then.

He appeared as a shadow would, tucked into the rocks behind her. At first he believed that she had no sense of his presence. He lingered there, in that moment where he half existed in a place, pretending that he was truly unnoticed.

"Loki," he heard her say finally, her face still turned to the desert. He crossed the few feet of space between them, leaning a shoulder against the warm stone that arched above them. "The air gets colder when you appear," she said quietly, "I suppose I should have noticed that before."

"You had no reason to," he told her, condescension in his tone as he followed her gaze out over the sand.

"No," she said slowly, "I suppose I didn't." Her tone was careful, measured. "Why?" she asked quietly.

"Thor was enamored with you. Do I need any reason more?" He felt her bristle at that, and it brought a smirk to his projected face. It was a small delight, being able to project like this even despite all their security measures. To them, he supposed he looked asleep.

"It still doesn't make sense," she said, her control over her words slipping. There was something tremulous in her voice. "If that was all you were after, you should have used me against him." Her eyes were on him now, a dark glare that demanded to know more. Loki shrugged, letting his eyes flick back to the desert.

"Why are you here now?" she demanded, "Rather difficult to gloat when you've lost, isn't it?" Her voice carried venom that he had not thought it possible of, and that grabbed his attention. Her expression was fierce, cold where before it had always regarded him with warm curiosity.

"Who says I've lost?" he replied lightly, ironing over the emotions her tone was baiting.

"The entire world?" she spat in reply, "Last I heard, you were pretty badly beaten and stuck in SHIELD custody."

"And yet here I am," he smirked at her, letting her wonder.

"Are you?" she demanded, her notebook toppling off her knee as she moved as quickly as a snake strike. Her free hand pierced the illusion. She shook her head, "Unbelievable," she muttered, "To think I fell for it for that long."

For a small eternity he was silent. What could be said? There was no lie that could conceal the truths she already knew to be true.

"I want more money," she said suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

Loki stared at her, unable to process understanding from her words.

She stared at him darkly, her mouth in a ragged pout. "You heard me," she repeated, "I want more money. I figure it's the least you could do to make up for what you've done. The damage to the human race. You could consider it reparations."

He couldn't help the smirk then. She wasn't predictable, after all, this mortal creature. And not nearly as ethical as she seemed to think herself. "You think your travel between worlds could make up for lost lives?" he asked her mockingly.

To her credit, she looked uncertain at that, as if she knew it wasn't true. He widened his smirk, crouching down to be nearer to her delicious struggle. "You do realize the money is conjured? That using it plays havoc with your world's pathetic economies?"

Her expression hardened. "There's plenty of counterfeiters out there," she justified, "At least what I'm doing…"

"Will help only yourself, Jane Foster," he interrupted, his voice full of malice. "The holes you seek are only traversable by one."

The look she gave him was downright dirty. "Then I'll go back to working on the Einstein-Rosen Bridge!" she replied, her glare even darker now that he was level with it.

Loki laughed. "Have it your way, Miss Foster," he told her smartly. "Who am I to turn down a _sanctioned_ opportunity for mischief?"

"Go away," she ordered, turning her head from him then.

"Oh?" he pressed, letting condescension drip from his words, "Now you believe you can give orders to gods, do you? How very mighty."

"Shut up," her voice held something of a snarl in it, and it only pressed Loki farther.

"Does it hurt to know that you aren't nearly as principled as dear Thor believed? That you would risk all manner of harm to your own world, if it let you continue your work?" He found his projection leaning closer towards her as she sat huddled, face turned away.

"Why should I care what Thor thinks?" she cried vehemently, her eyes flashing dangerously as she turned back to face him. "If he cared, he would have come back before."

"The Bifrost was destroyed," Loki told her, drinking in her furious expression and reading the hurt beneath it. "Your precious Thor couldn't return. Though he wanted to. And isn't that a thought? The mighty Thor pining after his mortal love while she goes about her life, caring for the masked villain?"

The hand that swished through his projection brought him more amusement. That the mortal would dare to hit him was laughable, that it should be such a failure was pure delight. Rage rolled off of her in waves now, her eyes broiling pools of shame and guilt. He wondered who she was more angry with, him for fooling her or herself for being so easily fooled. He suspected it might be the latter.

"I hate you," she snarled finally. "Are you happy now?" Her breath was coming raggedly, causing her breast to rise and fall with ferocious energy. "I _hate_ you."

He smirked, letting his projection straighten before her eyes. "I know, Jane Foster," he said softly, "You and everyone else."

He decided he would treasure the look of surprised shock she wore when his projection blinked out of existence for a long time to come. That and the pure fire that he hadn't dreamed would exist under her melancholy skin.


	8. Chapter 8

_What I do now is the crazy part. I'm playing with time, story telling form, and, yes, I am introducing an OC. No, you are not expected to like her. In fact, I kinda hate her myself. But that's the thing about a character who's designed to be little more than a catalyst…_

* * *

Many, many years ago…

Muspelheim is the realm of fire and is ruled by the fire demon Surtur, who was the first being and shall be the last. His is a world of flames and infernos, volcanoes and magma, ash and brimstone. Stone has been carved by liquid fire into jagged towers and needle-sharp spires. Bridges of super-heated stone span rivers of molten rock, daring travelers to put their lives into the hands of the fates. The entire realm is covered by a blackened sky. They have no stars, no sun, and no moons. Their light is the light of flickering flames and burning coals.

Those who call Muspelheim home are fierce beings. In their truest forms, they are fire demons, like their lord. They produce flames at will, brought forth from the internal fires that fill their hearts and souls. Some are mere imps, beings of ash and soot, while others are far greater in power and stature. Some of those, with the greatest power, have the magic needed to give themselves more familiar forms to those who would dare to enter their realm, or for when they leave their realm, though they are mostly loathe to do so. All the other realms are so cold in comparison.

It is not a forgiving realm, dominated as it is by a fire demon and his ilk. It's people are prone to violent tempers, fiery vengeance, and lustful natures. It is a dangerous place for those who have not been born of the fires. But this is not enough to keep Odin's sons away. No warnings of Odin's own misfortune in this most unfortunate and inhospitable realm can keep such brave, daring Aesir away. At least, this is what Thor tells Loki. When that fails to entice his more level-headed brother, Thor resorts to his usual tactics.

"Then I shall go without you!" he claims boastfully, shouldering the mighty Mjolnir. His stature is that of a hero, his blonde hair catching in the fine Asgardian breeze along with his grand crimson cape.

His dark-haired brother merely rolls his eyes. He is slighter than his brother, and darker, clad in black and viridian green leathers. He seems like a shadow beside the formidable figure of his brother, a warrior from his fine armour to his plated boots. It was already decided long ago that wherever his foolish brother went, Loki would follow. He had mastered spells of hiding, concealment, and illusion first for this very reason. Not that Thor could ever be convinced to turn from a fight.

Heimdall was hesitant to let the boys (they were only a millennia old at this time) travel the Bifrost to such a place, but the Allfather, in all his wisdom, had already granted the boys this permission. They were not to know, of course, for such knowledge would send them running towards other, even more dangerous places. Heimdall trusted in Odin, and granted the boys their foolish desire.

Which was how Odin's sons found themselves facing the inferno that was Muspelheim. Waterfalls of lava cascaded down ragged ridges of darkened rock, pouring into boiling cauldrons and rivers of molten rock. Towering spires rose overhead into the sinisterly dark skies. Heat blasted into the young men's faces, sweat pooling into leather and tunics as armour rose to temperatures that bordered on intolerable.

"You want go see Surtur?" a smallish, raspy voice addressed the pair.

"Who is there? Show yourself!" Thor demanded, as he scanned the area around him, searching for the source of the voice.

Loki watched in bemusement as a thin, jagged bit of shadow pulled itself away from a nearby boulder. The impish creature was all long limbs and angles, a minor demon of ash and soot. "You want go see Surtur?" it asked again, turning its head so that it's pointed chin and long, angled ears seemed at odds.

Thor looked rather disappointed and taken aback. The creature was far too small to be considered a worthy adversary, and seemed entirely too helpful to be a villainous monster, even as strange as it looked, sitting back on its sharply angled haunches. "Surtur is your lord," he recited, "So yes, we will see him."

The imp twittered in its raspy way, "Go see Surtur, we will!" It slipped from shadow to shadow, surprisingly agile despite its almost ungainly matchstick form.

"I sense no good can come of this," Loki drawled from behind his brother, shifting ever so slightly against his discomfort in the extreme heat. "I feel as though we have been expected."

"Nonsense," Thor scoffed. "No one knew we were coming. Perhaps the creature is always set to wait at that particular place between worlds. It is where the Bifrost touches down, after all."

Loki shrugged, disagreement evident in his pale features, but he followed his brother through the landscape of fire and stone nonetheless.

The imp brought them to a giant pool of liquid fire the colour of burnished gold. "Oh Lord Surtur," the creature chattered, "I bring to you visitors from the Eternal Realm."

"What trick is this?" Thor demanded, seeing nothing before them but the vast molten pool.

"No trick," a deep rumbling voice replied, as a vast form emerged from the pool. "Only truth, Odin son. Truth of my nature."

Thor looked less than impressed. "It seems a trick to me," he replied, his voice haughty, "A trick designed to intimidate or disarm."

The great fire demon rose twenty, thirty feet above the pool, his broad chest and hips rising above the molten stone, though his lower parts remained below - if they had form at all. His body was the burnt umber and reddish tones of his kingdom, his hair the black of soot, and his eyes a sharp crimson. They pierced though the smoke that surrounded his being and measured the arrogant Aesir before him. "It is no fault of mine if the truth intimidates those of lesser quality," he countered, the trace of a smile on his great, reddened lips.

"Those of lesser quality may tremble before you," Thor rejoined, "But mighty warriors do not fear such theatrics."

Behind Thor, his brother, the slender shadow with dark, seeing eyes, shifted impatiently. There were better things to spend time on than the wasted breath that was boasting. Thor's words were terribly transparent in any case, anyone could see that he wanted little more than to plunged rashly into action and battle, while the great demon lord before him was merely amused. If Thor had bothered to pay any attention at all during his lessons, he would know that Surtur had existed before the Allfather, and would exist even after. There was no reason for the lord to play at entertaining diversions unless he was in a gaming mood.

"Truthfully," Loki interjected, finally bored of the exchange, "We have entered your realm in pursuit of knowledge and experience. We seek only safe passage and your permission to gain a deeper understanding…"

"Pfah," Thor interrupted, "We need no safe passage. I am Thor, wielder of Mjolnir, and this is Loki, …"

"And we would very much appreciate your permission and safe passage," Loki insisted, agitation visible upon his face, even as sweat dampened his brow.

Surtur, the mighty fire lord laughed, "Ah, Odin did inform me that his son's were young and guileless, yet." He spread his arms widely, "I grant you safe passage and permission to enter my realm." His smile widened maliciously, "On one condition. You must attend to my young daughter, Phyre, who will accompany you on your travels through my realm. I believe you will find her an _entertaining_ companion."

The brothers shared a look that belied their power. Spending time with a young fire demon had not been part of their plans.

"Father," a female child's voice probed questioningly from a space beyond the great golden pool. "When may we go?"

A tiny, dainty creature stepped into the light of the molten pool, her small feet treading delicately along the shore. Unlike her father's monsterous visage, she seemed nearly Aesir in her appearance. Long, raven braids fell across her shoulders as she walked towards the brothers. The child was beautiful in her innocence, seemingly unaffected by her surroundings. Her skin had an olive tone and her eyes were dark almonds that peered upwards at her tall companions. She wore a simple shift-like gown of dark ochre, that left her legs below her knees bare. Her bare feet padded across the baking stones without hesitation.

The mighty fire lord looked down upon his daughter with fondness, his flaming eyes calming slightly in his regard. "You may leave now, assuming our guests are still eager to explore our realm?" His gaze upon the brothers was mildly threatening, suggesting that they accept this babysitting job with all the grace befitting two princes.

"Of course, my Lord," Loki replied, biting his tongue, "And we thank you for the opportunity to learn more about your realm, and for your trust, in placing her under our care."

The fire lord snorted then, "I believe," he replied, bemused, "That you will soon find that you are in her care, Aesir. Phyre shall be Empress of this realm one day, and knows it better than you could in a thousand thousand lifetimes. Do not let her youth fool you. We reach maturity much more slowly than your type. She has likely lived nearly as long as you."

Surprisingly silent, the two brothers merely nodded their acknowledgements, realizing with disappointment that they had evidently walked into a previously arranged agreement between their realms. The young princess of Muspelheim gazed up at them with her bottomless eyes that burned with energy and excitement. "What shall you see first?" she asked them, 'The Towers of Pain? The Eternal Fire? The Ash Imp Village?"

Thor shrugged wearily, Mjolnir slipping from his shoulder. "Are we so reduced, to sight-seeing?" he asked his brother.

Loki blinked at Thor, "I thought this was what you wanted?" he replied, his voice full of false sympathy, "To explore another, forbidden realm. And here we have a most qualified guide," he flashed a smile down at the princess.

The princess smiled shyly, stretching out her hand to Loki. "Come," she commanded in her almost musical voice, "I will show you the Eternal Flame first."

Loki smiled, amused by the composure of the lovely, little creature. He accept her outstretched hand into his own, "Yes, Thor," he prompted, "Let us go see this Eternal Flame."

Thor's expression could only be described as a surly pout.

* * *

Years may have passed, but Phyre remembers the princes of Asgard well. The large, well-muscled one, who had followed her throughout her realm with such disappointment and surly disregard, and the slighter, darker one, who's hand had taken hers and cooled her skin for the first time in her already lengthy life. She had spent hours, perhaps even days, staring into his icy, blue-green eyes. He had been the first to introduce her to magic – true magic, not merely the glamours of her people. Into her hand, he had placed living illusions: butterflies and flowers, and, perhaps most intriguing of all, snowflakes. The prince had left far too soon for her liking, but the curiosity he had inspired remained. Everyday since, she had dreamed of those eyes, of living things, of snow.

And she had vowed that one day, all of it would be hers.

It had taken nearly two thousand years of watching and waiting, but Phyre finally sat upon the Allfather's throne. She crossed her long legs gracefully, shamelessly letting the long slit that ran down the skirt of her thin gown expose her warm, olive skin. She wore the colours of her home, the burnt umber and ochre and gold, and her dark hair cascaded across her shoulders and down her back. She was a vision of loveliness and exotic wealth and decadence. She had engineered that on purpose.

She struggled to maintain her expression of casual interest. She smirked slightly at the confusion upon the warrior Thor's face. He was so terribly simple. Thinking he would return to his home, all safe and eternal. Only fire was eternal. The Aesir were fools for thinking otherwise.

Her attention did not linger long there, however. Her eyes searched out those of the other prince and upon finding them was rather disappointed. They had gagged him, the magnificent dark prince of Asgard, with his famous lying mouth. She clucked her tongue with annoyance, taking in the chains that hung from his wrists. Her childhood hero was a prisoner in chains. Which, really, could easily work to her advantage, she realized. The smirk returned to her crimson lips.

"I bid you welcome," she said finally, "Thor Odinson," she paused, her eyes catching the prisoner's with a wink, "And Loki Laufeyson." She leaned back into the throne, a self-satisfied look upon her face, "Perhaps you don't recognize me, for the years have been ever so long since we last met. I am Phyre, Empress of Muspell and Asgard."

"Asgard?" Thor spat in outrage. "What have you done with the Allfather? How dare you sit upon his throne?"

"Ah ah ah," Phyre wagged a single finger in Thor's direction, a tiny tendril of magic sealing his lips. Unwillingly, if the rage in his expression was an indication. "Is that any way to greet your Empress?" she pouted slightly, rising slowly from the throne. She moved with the sinuous motion born to her people. "I promise answers to all your questions, in due time, if you pay me the proper respects."

The look of outrage in Thor's expression suggested that such a thing was unlikely to occur, but the cool interest in Loki's eyes had her preening under the attention. Her hips swayed seductively as she ghosted down the steps from the throne, a second tendril of magic freezing Thor into place. The last thing she needed was a giant magic hammer doing damage to her throne room, after all.

She sashayed up to Loki, eyes roaming over him freely. He stood so tall, so proud, despite the chains and the gag across his mouth. She can feel the power, the magic, sleeping inside of him. She closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the taste of his magic as it brushed across her own. "You see," she murmured finally, "I had heard that the throne of Asgard had passed to one of its princes. Naturally, such an event is of interest in any realm, but that it was the younger brother who took control was a true curiosity. Then suddenly, nothing," she extended her hands outwards, her eyes never leaving Loki's, "There is only silence from Asgard. There is the rumour that the Rainbow Bridge has been broken, that the Aesir can no longer travel between worlds. There is no way of knowing who holds the throne."

Phyre had inherited her father's love for theatrics, and she gives in to it more often than not. She spun away from the princes, her eyes flashing with the fire that is her birthright. "So I think to myself," she said softly as she ascended the steps to the throne ever so slowly, "My father sleeps beneath the soils of Asgard, banished by an Asgardian king. The throne of Muspell is terribly lonely, and awfully small. Wouldn't it be something, to unite two realms? Or perhaps more?" She licked her lips purposefully. She has always been ambitious.

"But then I arrive," she added softly, leaning back ever so slightly as she slides her hands down the bodice of her gown, "And they tell me that the rightful king has reclaimed his throne, even if he has once again passed into the Odinsleep. That the poisonous snake, Loki, usurper of the throne, isn't even Aesir at all, but Jotun with a pretty glamour. That he has gone to Midgard, all in an attempt to file some small retribution against his adopted brother who left him in the shadows for far too long." She let herself tumble into the seat of the throne, her long, bare legs curling up onto the ornate arm of the throne. Once again she has exposed toned expanses of silky, olive skin. She trailed a hand along her leg, watching Loki's eyes as they darkened and twitched in anger.

He is proud, she found herself thinking. He feels too much for his own good, is blinded by the pain of too many lies and betrayals. She smiled at him then, a lazy, predatory smile. She called forward her natural form, her hand igniting into flame. "So," she purred, running the flame up and down her leg without harm, "I let _my _pretty glamour fall and show the arrogant Aesir what comes to those who belittle true power."

She watched him closely as realization dawned across his face. His eyes met hers with that cool curiosity and regard she remembered so clearly. "I do believe," she began, addressing only him though there was, by all rights, an entire court in attendance, "That if what they say about your parentage is true, that would add a third realm to those which could be united and ruled."

Two like minds had finally met, Phyre thought, as she waved a hand to remove the gag Loki wore. Her magic is strong, perhaps stronger than his, but it was he who inspired her study of the art. For that, and for all that she stands to gain, she makes this offer.

"I could work with that," he told her simply, ignoring the horror that blossomed in the wide eyes of his adopted brother, who stood still as a statue and silent as stone.

Phyre smirked. "Excellent," she purred. She always gets the things she wants.

* * *

_A/N: I'm aware that there are some grammatical issues with this chapter, specifically to do with tense switching. I've tried to catch most of it, but the truth is that I wrote most of this chapter months ago when I first had this story idea. So if there's anything major – please feel free to let me know. If need be, I'll re-update this chapter to solve any glaring mistakes. _


	9. Chapter 9

Loki was still trying to reconcile what had happened with what he had expected to happen. Rather than facing judgment, he now faced something far more terrifying: marriage. To a fire demon, no less.

Despite what mortal stories told, Loki had never been married. Truthfully, he had never had the desire. This self-proclaimed Empress of Muspell and Asgard was powerful enough to bind Thor with a wave of her fingertips, however, and the fact that a solid half of the Aesir were under lock and key in the dungeons was a grim reminder of her power. Sometimes, one simply had to do what one must because the other options are just too determinedly bleak. If there was one thing that Loki had enough of in recent days, it was being bound and imprisoned. If this charade was what it took to maintain his freedom, then he supposed that he must persist.

Loki stared unseeingly out the green-curtained window of the room that has always been his. The palace garden stretched out before him, and he could smell, faintly, the roses his mother has always loved so well. The fire demon in the throne room had even imprisoned Frigga, and that was a thought even he found vaguely terrifying and horrifying all at once. A part of him wanted to run to the dungeons to check on his mother. Another part reminded him without hesitation that Frigga was not his mother at all, and that by now Thor would have told her that Loki has sided with this new usurper. Perhaps with assistance he could do what he had been unable to achieve on his own.

Never mind that this is not his intention at all. Really, all Loki wanted in the present moment was to survive. Thor may not have remembered the young fire demon who had accompanied them on their tour of Muspell, but Loki did. He remembered the guileless depth of her eyes as they stared up at him, emanating trust and innocence. Perhaps he had been as blind as Thor. He saw now that he should never have shown her his magic. Should have suspected that Surtur's words had been a warning against trusting his offspring. Odin had warned more often than not of the dangers Muspell offered. He should have mentioned ambition as one of them.

Long, pale fingers clenched into tight fists. He was not the type to simply go along with things. He was master of his own destiny. He just… needed to wait for the right moment to strike.

* * *

Somehow, he knew she would be here. The moment before he entered Odin's treasure room he realized his mistake. Of course the creature would surround herself with items of unfathomable power and beauty. She probably thought she herself belonged to the same category.

It was too late to retrace his steps, however. To pause and turn now would look too much like retreat, and that would simply inspire suspicion. He would instead have to feign the sort of attraction a moth had for a flame: inevitably drawn towards it, despite the mounting dread and horror. As if destruction held appeal to him. Then again, to an observer, it was entirely possible that such a thing might seem true. Loki tucked the thought away for review. It was possible that the key to his eventual triumph might lay in his previous defeat.

His footsteps were slow, nonetheless. A confrontation with the fire demon who thought far too much of herself was not something he relished and the role he would have to play left a bitter taste in his mouth. He pushed open the heavy door to the treasure room and stepped inside, all the while hiding his misgivings beneath a mask of cool indifference.

The moment he entered the dimly lit space, her golden eyes searched him out. With an expression akin to a jungle cat, she prowled out of the far shadows. At some point she had switched out her previous dress for a simple white shift, a jaded attempt at purity if Loki had ever seen one. Surtur's daughter exuded sexuality the way tropical night flowers threw off perfume, there was no pretending at innocence for her.

He watched her inch closer, her sharp-tipped nails dragging lightly over priceless artifacts of power. Her full lips had drawn themselves into a sensual pout. "I _was_ wondering when you would find me," she murmured, twisting about a pedestal with fluidity. Her nails scratched hard against the stone, revealing their true claw-like nature in the etchings they left behind.

It was then that Loki realized how far her demonic nature extended. A thin, lithe tail twined about her long, toned legs for a moment before swishing back, lifting itself to coil about the ancient chalice that rested upon the pedestal. Evidently prehensile, the tail flicked the chalice, letting a silvery note echo about the darkened space.

"That is the Dark Chalice of Ancient Nights," Loki protested long before he could help himself, "That is the very vessel that inspired…"

"The Midgardian Holy Grail?" she rejoined, fire in her eyes. "I know," she slithered closer, her voice falling to a whisper, "But it is hardly the most powerful or valuable object in this room. It's barely worth mention at all, compared to some of the things Odin has stashed away in here over the ages."

The corner of Loki's lips twitched in anger. A lack of respect for objects of power was inevitably the beginning of a sorcerer's downfall. The things were vaguely sentient, after all, and many could carry a grudge.

The demoness seemed to interpret the movement as amusement though, as she wavered on the edges of his personal space. She seemed to be constantly in motion, from her searching fingers that seemed to desire to touch everything within reach to her damnable tail. All the while, her predatory gaze watched him, searching out weakness or hesitancy. Loki stood his ground, letting his own cool gaze drift about the room, falling on her again only after a lengthy perusal. Satisfied that each object was still in its proper place, he finally allowed the creature a measure of his attention.

Cat-like eyes stared up him in curiosity. "Do you even remember my name?" she asked finally, her tone regal, though some quality within it suggested a faint sense of dejection.

"Phyre, daughter of Surtur," Loki intoned, "Whom Thor and I once had the pleasure of accompanying throughout Muspell's many wonders."

The sudden brilliance in her eyes threw Loki momentarily off guard. The possibility that her desires included more than just power crossed his mind. Green eyes met gold for a long moment as Loki realized that the fire demon's proposal had been about more than just securing thrones. He let his lips relax into a lazy smile, "But perhaps I have been remiss. It has been an interminable passage of time since then, and you are a far cry from the young maiden I became so fond of."

She slipped closer to him, bare feet padding silently on the stone floor. Her expression was one of fascinated longing, as if she had never been so praised and yet had spent her entire life waiting for it. Her long, dark hair shone in the firelight of the sconces and torches around them. With fingertips that trembled every so slightly, a lock of those blackened waves was pulled behind her own ear. She leaned forward, the angles and curves of her body wrapping themselves around his space.

Loki ignored the distaste he felt for the closeness of her. Her very presence seemed to fill his mouth with bitter ash. Under the borrowed Asgardian façade, his very nature revolted against hers. Fire and ice were not meant to mix. The look of longing in her eyes suggested that she thought otherwise, however, and Loki suddenly understood just where his power would have to come from.

He never guessed that her nature might be as duplicitous as his own.

* * *

Unions between realms were exceedingly rare. Besides the fact that at least a few of the races were almost entirely incompatible, the idea of concentrating the power of multiple worlds upon one ruling couple was vaguely terrifying to most. In some ways, the invitation to a twice-royal wedding was merely a prelude to war. Such were the sentiments surrounding the union of Muspell's Empress and Asgard's younger prince.

Asgard's finest hall was a triumph of silver and gold. The finest wines and ales poured freely, the richest meats were prepared and served in abundance, and the festivities had no equal. Yet no delegate or diplomat, whether Alfar, Dvergar, or any of the countless other sentient forms of life who happened across the event, failed to notice that at least several of Asgard's guests were bound in chains of magic.

Thor, the Thunderer and rightful heir to Asgard's throne, sat sullen and silent. Blue eyes held a tumultuous blend of rage and betrayal. His crimson cloak hung battered from his slumped shoulders and his armour, though polished to a fine shine, looked somehow lessened. Mjolnir hung, unreachable, from his belt. His form bristled with silent fury, and none who saw him doubted that he would rend the entire affair asunder, could he only break free of his invisible bindings.

Far more distressing was the state of Asgard's true queen. Frigga, as lovely and composed as ever, watched the proceedings with anguished eyes. She sat with her shoulders firm and proud, her slender figure raised to its full height. Her gown was a matronly cream and gold, and she wore it with elegance and assurance. At the gentle and hushed questioning of those who passed, she would nod gracefully. She was a silent portrait of poise and only her eyes betrayed the pretense of grace and acceptance. Those eyes, which never left her adopted son, seemed to carry not an ounce of malice or shame, only concern and sorrow.

Loki found he could not meet her gaze at all.

Truthfully, he felt as if he could not meet anyone's eyes. Far too many Asgardians were in a bound and silenced state of attendance. Eyes that had watched him grow to adulthood stared at him now with malice and fury. It was so much less than the respect and near worship that he truly desired that it very nearly drove him to distraction. Simply existing in a room full of those who wish you dead was difficult. Being the centre of attention in that room bordered on unbearable.

"Husband," her sultry voice murmured in his ears, "You seem disquiet."

Only his steadfast survival instinct kept the scorn and disgust from his eyes. "I would that this event be more… joyous," he spat bitterly, a tiny gesture from his elegant fingers indicating the Aesir, who weighed so heavily upon his mind.

"They are no matter," she announced in clear tones that brooked no discussion. "They will see sense eventually," she licked her lips, stained a murderous damask with a pointed tongue, "And if they do not come to it willingly, then they will come to it through some other path."

She was ruthless, and while her nature was never truly concealed, her manner with the visiting delegations was all silk and honey. She seemed an endless font of assurances and comforts, weaving a story for the wedding guests of a love that had been born of a visit many years before, finally realized now that she had the power to escape her realm. In her words, she became a tragic princess in search of a dark prince who had visited gifts of magic and wonder upon her ashen world.

While flattering, Loki felt only a vague sense of disquiet at her tale. For Phyre's eyes held no love when they regarded him, and no mention of the emotion had crossed either's lips. If her eyes held anything, it was the fires of ambition and a smoldering suggestion of passion. There might even have been a trace of lust in their depths. But no love.

The guests seemed enthralled, however; willingly duped by the passion of her voice and the language of her carefully controlled body. Loki suspected that he may have found the creature who had spawned the Midgardian concept of succubi. He only wished that it had not latched so fervently upon him as the tool with which to achieve her ends. Really, he shuddered at the thought that it was her more primal nature that he would have to take advantage of in order to seize any control of the situation.

He turned his eyes back to the hall, wondering now if he should have taken this path, requiring such guile and concealed intentions. It was possible that, together, he and Thor might have been capable of dealing a blow severe enough to scare the demoness out of Asgard. Perhaps he would have taken more time to consider her offer if he had known that the event had already been planned and guests had already begun to arrive before he had even set foot back into Asgard as a prisoner of war. The understanding that his choice in the matter had been more illusion than reality had unnerved him. Apparently, the fire demon would have been more than comfortable with a groom as silent and bound as those she had pulled from the dungeons for appearance's sake. It made him wonder if it might have been better to fight this time, than to fall back on his less straightforward methods.

Her dagger-like nails, painted a sultry damask to match her lips, scratched across the rich fabrics and leather of his ceremonial armour, an appalling invasion of his space. For a long moment, Loki stared down at her olive-skinned hand, where it had come to rest possessively on his forearm. With a cool detachment that had apparently required several thousand years to perfect, he followed the deceptively dainty hand to a bare arm, and up to the beautiful but alien face of the woman beside him. The woman who just so happened to be his wife.

For the first time, Loki was thankful that his true nature was ice. It was all that allowed him to remain impassive in the face of the unreadable inferno of her golden eyes.

* * *

_A/N: I know, where the flying cheese is Jane? She's not gone and is, most certainly, not forgotten. The next chapter will deal with that very issue. This I promise. _


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: There's a reason this story is rated M… and its not just the gratuitous sexy times Jane and Loki will have in what my brain has decided to be "part three" of this story (we're in the middle of part two for anyone who's wondering). It's also because there's going to be a lot of darkness. And at least some of it can be found here. If you completely and utterly object to the thought of Loki having interactions of a sexual nature with anyone but Jane, skip straight on down past the second break – there's mention of a tree. You're safe from there._

* * *

His wedding night.

Loki was unsettled. Sex, he had no trouble with. After all, mortals told myths about him having giving birth to Sleipnir (though he suspected, if Jane Foster was anything to go by, Midgardians could probably recognize genetic engineering for what it really was now). He was a god of chaos and mischief and even ancient legends spoke of his capabilities in terms of seduction. The thought had even crossed his mind that night in Tromso, seeing Thor's beloved mortal dressed in his colours. The irony would have been enough to sustain his amusement for years, and he doubted that even the seemingly virtuous Jane Foster would have turned him down that night.

No, it was the fact that this was expected of him. Usually, he had something to gain or a desire to seduce. There was usually mischief to be had, or chaos to be caused, or social norms to be violently upset. This time, it was his very scripted part in an ancient ceremonial tradition. It went against everything he represented. Worse even, his every instinct was to revile the fire demon, to escape from her claw-like grasp and flashing, golden gaze. The idea of touching her, skin-to-skin, was starting a revolt in every molecule of his being.

He suspected it was the frost giant in him that was so utterly repulsed by her. Ice, wary of the potential for destruction, evaporation, under the fire of her natural form. Certainly, he found her distasteful personally, but that sort of personal qualm had never been a problem before, provided that what he stood to gain was worth the energy of hiding his true feelings. Here, he stood to gain power, to maintain freedom, to finally catch and hold the upper hand. But perhaps the knowledge that if he failed to play the part he would almost certainly be confined to the dungeons, or worse, was fighting against him.

Loki stood alone in the bedroom Phyre had chosen as her own. The softly-coloured stone of the palace went well with the filmy fabrics and curtains the demoness had hung about the room. Splashes of ochre, crimson, gold, and damask brought a warmth to the room. The hangings wavered in the evening air that pushed into the space, heavy with the scent of jasmine and hibiscus. With his eyes half-lidded, Loki felt as if he were trapped in the middle of a flame, such was the colour and movement of the textiles. Somewhere behind him there was a bed, piled heavy with luxurious bedclothes of silk and spun starlight, a technique mastered by the Alvar centuries ago. He was a king awaiting a queen, and though the surroundings supported that, Loki had never felt as low as he did now.

Even as his thoughts and feelings waged war with necessity, his supposed wife slithered into the doorway of the room. She was a vision of exotic beauty, her dark hair pinned up by a single, crimson hibiscus bloom, clothed in nearly transparent robes of red and gold. She was a lithe sliver of flame, though her eyes suggested a raging wildfire. Her nails dragged slowly down the stone doorway as her tail swung back and forth with an impatience no other part of her betrayed.

"Lie back and think of Asgard," a young voice echoed in Loki's mind, as his lips tilted into a smirk. Early in his life, among the first of those who fell to his charms, had been the innocent beauty who had murmured faint platitudes as he had let her tumble into a bed. He remembered rising from her, forcing her to open her eyes and register his existence properly.

"What _are_ you saying?" he had asked her, his voice condescending and amused.

She had stared up at him with soft, violet eyes that seemed to hold him in awe and fear. "Lie back," she whispered, in a tone full of hushed embarrassment, "And think of Asgard." He had regarded her with studiously inscrutable eyes for a long moment, prompting her to continue. "My… my mother," she stuttered, hands frantically smoothing skirts that had risen just a little too high for the propriety he had forced her to surrender a full ten minutes earlier, "She knew that I would… attract attention, looking like I do."

"Beautiful," he had intoned, stating the fact for what it was, "Yes."

He had watched the blush rise into her cheeks with a mild sense of triumph. "She… she told me to do my duty. You are…" she stared at him with the terrified gaze of a trapped animal, "You are a royal prince of Asgard."

She said the words as if they explained themselves, and though Loki knew exactly what she meant by them, he fully intended to draw out her torture. "And so?" he prompted patiently, his long fingers tracing nonsense patterns upon her bare ankle.

"And…" she stuttered, her eyes glancing wildly at his hand upon her skin, "I… My mother said I am not to turn you down. You or…" A faint moan escaped her lips as Loki slid his hand further up her leg, dragging her skirts up with it as he tapped lightly against the soft skin behind her knee. He had no desire to hear his brother's name at present, only to hear her admit his power over her.

"My lord," she whimpered softly, fear in her voice, "Please, just… just have your way. Let this be done."

"And have you lie back and bear it, as if this were merely your duty?" he had purred, "I think not."

She had looked absolutely terrified for a moment before he had leaned down into the space between her legs. He had spent the next hour introducing her to exactly what it meant for one to have a silver tongue, and when she had finally lain back, it had most certainly not been to think of Asgard.

"I wondered," Phyre's voice pulled him from his reverie, "Why you made no move upon me in the treasure room." She took slow and careful steps towards him, as if approaching a skittish horse. "I wondered, because I had heard the tales of wicked Loki, seducing whomever he so chose." Her hips swayed in a way that a lesser man would have found hypnotic; the flimsy fabrics she wore accentuated the shadows of her slender curves, rather than concealing them. "I wondered, on that day and the few I allowed to pass before tonight why… and how… you managed to keep yourself at bay," her voice carried a note of self-assuredness, as if she had never been resisted in such a way. A fact that was possible, if what Loki could remember of Muspell's culture held true.

She had slipped into his space now, her tail curling around and behind his legs. A single, claw-like finger slid across the chest piece of his armour. "So I realized," she said lightly, her gold eyes staring up him with impish glee, "That the stories must all be lies."

Loki could not help the sound that escaped his throat. It came out as a growl, full of spite and fury. He was too overwhelmed emotionally to hold back the surprise her accusation had sparked as it challenged his very nature.

Her eyes glowed predatorily as she stepped closer, the single finger joined by the rest of her hand as she smoothed it across the hardened leather's surface. "I realized that perhaps Loki, the great artist of seduction, was nothing but a story created by those who wished to be more important than they are," her lips hardened into a cruel smirk. "Perhaps his attention is held by something else? Men, maybe? Or horses," she mused, eyes dancing with silent laughter, "I've heard that one too."

Without a moment of thought spared to process the fact that she was playing his own game, Loki found his hand grabbing hold of her own. He dragged her wrist backwards, freeing himself of her touch. "You have no idea what I am like," he snarled, violence in his eyes.

"Oh," she purred, "But I do _so _want to find out."

And though he'd had no previous inclination to do so, Loki found himself showing her.

* * *

It was with a jolt of consternation that Loki awoke to find the slender creature next to him slipping out of bed and into a scarlet robe. "Where are you going?" he demanded, though his voice sounded more like an entreaty in his ears. He was suddenly filled with a strange sense of shame and confusion.

Phyre's touch, even glamoured, had a violent heat to it. She had melted him, burnt him, and still they had come back for more. There was nothing loving or tender about it, simply the war of sensations. Frost versus flame fighting for dominance.

"Kingdoms do not run themselves," her voice carried a mocking tone to it. "They need the guidance of their empress to even exist." She threw a glance of indifference towards him, her eyes sliding away from him, as if she had spent all the desire and interest she'd had last night. "No need for you to trouble yourself," she continued, "I have a firm hold of things. Perhaps you should simply rest."

And just like that, Loki realized that he had completely failed to gain the upper hand, or even a tiny measure of control. Instead, he had lost his one trump card. In melting under her, he had satisfied her curiosity and sated her demand that all eyes be upon her. His indifference was what she had found intriguing. She desired only to possess and once that was achieved, she relied solely on her existing power to maintain that possession. She would expend no further effort upon him now.

That much was evident when she stalked from the room without a backwards glance. Wedding ceremony complete, curiosity satisfied, the fiend continued on her determined path to power.

Loki blinked slowly, letting the fact that he had slipped up simply because she had _baited_ him process fully. Taken together with his failure to appropriately use Jane Foster, he could come to only one conclusion. He had apparently become absolutely useless when faced with women.

It didn't matter then that the sheets were made of silk and starlight, they felt intolerable upon his skin. Remaining still seemed impossible. The need to recover some fraction of his power raced through his veins insistently. The desire to wash any trace of the demoness from his being was urgent. Simply being himself was excruciating.

Loki felt he must have somehow discovered hell.

* * *

There was a skeletal tree in the farthest corner of the garden. This particular corner was tucked artfully behind a corpse of magnificent spruce that obstructed all view of the deadened thing from the palace. It seemed shameful, this thing that was once a tree. Little more than bleached bones, long stripped of all bark or moss. It was smooth as stone, and as equally lifeless. Yet upon it perched a raven of uncanny magnificence.

The bird watched the world with keen eyes. Feathers blacker than the darkest night soaked up the light, drawing in the eye. Its massive beak was sharp and cruel, though its talons shone with a deadly intent of their own. What one truly needed to fear from this raven, however, was the same thing one must fear of all ravens: their tongues.

"Loki," the creature greeted, its voice a hoarse caw, "You've made terrible mistakes."

Loki stared at the wretched bird with deadened eyes. He had sought it out with a sense of trepidation and uncertainty. He was not on good terms with his adopted father, and he suspected that his familiars would share the sentiment.

The raven shuffled its feet upon the branch, ruffling its feather as it moved, "You are still so young. So foolish." It cocked its head at Loki, "Did you really believe you could beat the Empress of Muspellheim at her own game?"

"It was my game first!" Loki exclaimed angrily, biting his tongue when the words echoed in his ears. The statement was childish, at best. It suggested an immaturity that Loki had long denied, so intensely focused had he been upon seeing the trait in Thor.

The raven shook its head, fluttering its wings as if to sweep the words from the air, "The question now, is what must you do to repair this mess?" The raven fixed him with an inky glare. It turned its head this way and that. "Hmm?" it prompted, "What _must_ you do?"

"Must?" repeated Loki, his tone bitter, "Why _must_ I do anything?"

The raven fixed him with a glare. "Because a usurper sits upon the throne of Asgard. No son of Odin would…"

"But _I am not a son of Odin_," cried Loki. His features were downcast, the anguish in his eyes evident to any who cared to see.

But Huginn did not care to see. He spread his wings and lifted from the branch. And he promptly walloped the prince of Asgard with the heft of his pitch-black wings. A ragged screech ripped itself from the bird's throat, frustrated anger evident in its harshness. "I care not about the past," he shrieked, "For that you should have sought Muginn!"

When Loki finally dared to raise his face from behind the protection of his upraised arms, Huginn was once again calmly perched upon the bleached bones of the ancient tree, preening himself now as if he had not just struck a member of the royal house of Asgard. After a long moment, the animal raised his head. "It is up to you who you choose to be," he said cryptically, "But know that Odin does not stir, and that greater forces are at work. The fate of the worlds hangs in the balance. And as long as a usurper sits on Asgard's throne, that fate shall be bleak indeed."

Loki glared hopelessly at the bird. "So I'm supposed to save the universe?" he sputtered resentfully. "You do realize that I'm the one who's supposed to end it?"

The raven eyed him skeptically, "So _you_ believe the mortal's stories now?" Loki found himself evading the creature's gaze. He listened as the bird sighed. Talons skittered across the hardened wood as the raven hopped sideways across the branch so as to be nearer. Loki looked up to find the raven staring deep into his eyes. "You are no artifact, Loki," the bird said softly, "You have a will and a power all your own. You must simply learn to direct them properly." With that, the bird pushed off of the branch, taking flight in a nearly silent brush of feathers.

Loki's eyes followed the raven for a long moment before he shook his head. "And that was even less helpful than I had hoped," he snarled, his agitation only increased. Because he knew what Huginn wanted. He knew because deep down, it was what he had also wanted from the moment he set foot back in Asgard. So, guilt and insecurity held in check, Loki went to see his mother.

* * *

_A/N: I'm terrible. I promised you all Jane and then I produce… this. I'm appalled at myself. But… it makes everything that has yet to come work. Jane **will** show up next chapter. I swear it. _

_p.s. you should all leave reviews. I feel like no one is reading this thing. Did I really lose all your love with the plot turn? _


	11. Chapter 11

"My son," Frigga's voice rang out with a crystalline clarity that very nearly brought Loki to his knees. There was no judgement in her sweet voice, only love and longing and maternal fear.

Without conscious thought, Loki's hands had reached through the bars of the dungeon cell, to clasp his mother's own. He knew the look in his eyes expressed the concern and distaste for their surroundings that he felt. His mother, the loveliest of all the goddesses, did not belong in a dungeon.

Yet Frigga merely smiled at him; a sad tilt of her full, pink lips. She slipped one hand free of his grasp and ran the back of it down the side of his cheek, a motherly caress she had not indulged in since he was very young. "My son," she echoed, her tone carrying within in the pain of the unspoken words: _what have you done?_

Loki felt the question keenly, and though he had known it would lurk behind every word and glance, he still had no answer for it. He could only cling to his mother's hand, feeling helpless and hopeless and terrified that she would turn away from him at any moment.

"He has betrayed Asgard."

Thor's voice was so calm and low that Loki did not at first recognize it. Peering into the shadows behind his mother, he was able to make out a sort of wooden bench mounted to the side of the dungeon. Upon it was a bulky shape, that had an air of tired defeat. It was Thor, so utterly betrayed and disheartened in a way that Loki had never imagined him capable.

"Hush, Thor," their mother murmured, "Loki has not betrayed Asgard. Not in his heart." She looked at him slightly askance, as if determining the effect of her words. "Betrayed some of Asgard's ideals, yes," she said, more to Loki than Thor, "But not Asgard herself."

Thor's huddled shape stood then. The crumpled lines of his cape and clothes pulling straighter as he became tall and imposing. He cleared the space between the bench and the cell bars in the blink of an eye, glaring harshly upon his once-brother. His blue eyes had a steely effect to them, his beard already growing wild from lack of attention. Judgment poured from every cell of his body. "Are you so sure, Mother?" he demanded, his eyes flashing wildly upon Loki. "He has torn Midgard apart in an attempt to soothe his ego, granted a usurper a right to the throne, and…"

"And he has survived," Frigga murmured. Her soft words washed the others away and Loki felt for the first time in a very long time, a small sense of hope.

"Survived for what?" Thor spat, turning from the bars until his face was shrouded in the dusty darkness.

"Would you rather I were trapped in there with you? Completely helpless?" Loki snapped finally, pulling himself from his mother's partial embrace. He had about him an aura of unsurprised rejection, like a stray cat who has been chased away too many times.

"Boys!" Frigga cried suddenly, her voice carrying a note of heartsick pain, "You are brothers!"

"But we aren't," said Loki sadly, turning to his mother with an expression of sorrow on his lips, as if he hated to admit this truth in her presence.

"Oh Loki," she sighed heavily, her breast rising with the weight of it. "Come here," she motioned with her hands, jutting them through the bars and wrapping them about Loki's own. In the darkness of the dungeon, Loki could see how very pale his skin was compared to her own. He seemed to almost glow in the darkness, a stark contrast to the warm pink tones of Frigga's skin. He was so unlike the family who had raised him.

Frigga shook her head softly, blonde ringlets falling about her face. She looked at him in a manner that suggested that she knew his thoughts and his heart, and it broke her heart to do so. "My Loki," she whispered softly, rubbing her finger tips across his long hands. "You may not have come to me in the way sons normally do, but you have been _my son_ from the moment my husband placed you into my arms. Never doubt this." She squeezed his hands, "A usurper sits upon your brother's throne, but it is his by birth order, not birthright." Her eyes shone in the shadows, "You are the youngest son," her breath caught in her throat, memories of another boy threatening but so quickly pushed away, "It is your place to defend your brother's right, not look to steal it. It is not a power meant for you. You have a power all your own."

Loki looked at her with haunted eyes. The similarity of her words to those of the raven, Huginn, struck him immediately. The weight of them and the heaviness of her tone would bear no debate. In Frigga's eyes, he was her son. The brother to Thor. A rightful prince of Asgard. Nothing would change this for her.

For her, he might try to be something more than the snake he was.

"What must I do?" he begged quietly, his hands limp within Frigga's grasp.

There was a sound of shuffling and Loki found his gaze settling upon Thor's weary features once again. Thor looked at him with a mixture of skepticism and uncertainty, as if he was finally too worn from Loki's games to actually hope but his nature demanded that he do so nonetheless. "Seek out Jane Foster," Thor said quietly, "Build a Bifrost. Collect the warriors of many realms and bring them to Asgard's door."

There was disbelief in both their eyes. "You want me to go back to Midgard?" Loki murmured quietly.

Thor's expression suggested that he himself was uncertain. "Is there another option?" he asked slowly, weighing the words upon his tongue. "Jane Foster is the only being outside of Asgard who truly understands the Bifrost well enough to aid in its construction." He looked remorseful, "And a Bifrost is the only way to bring any amount of strength into Asgard. We… have not the strength or force to mount a resistance from within."

Frigga had freed Loki's hands in the midst of Thor's words and now lay one of her hands upon Thor's shoulder. "It is a sad day for the Aesir," she agreed, her voice calm and full of strength, "But we have allies on other worlds."

Thor smiled weakly at her before lifting his gaze to Loki. "The Avengers," he said softly.

Loki stared at him as if he had grown horns from his head, "I doubt that would be a wise move on my part."

Thor shrugged, "Then perhaps the Alvar and Dvergar will have to do, provided they have not entered alliance with… your queen." Thor's tone had hardened and Loki watched as Frigga's hand tightened upon Thor's shoulder.

She looked to Loki then. "Her magic," she began, shaking her head slightly, "It will not be defeated by normal means, I think. There's something else behind it. Something making her stronger than she should be." Her curls shook slightly, "I should have more to tell you, but I cannot."

Loki nodded abruptly. "If that is all then?" he joked, a bitter quality to his voice.

Frigga sighed again, her hand on Thor's shoulder looking pale and tight. "Do not despair, my son," she said slowly, "You are our only hope."

Loki left the dungeons with a sense of perplexity. The universe seemed determined to make a hero out of him. And that was a not a role he was at all comfortable playing.

* * *

Jane Foster was dressed in emerald green. It was, oddly, the first thing Loki noticed. He was less than certain of the plan Thor had proposed, and so here he was, spying on the mortal in question from across all the distance that Asgard could offer. Eyes that didn't have form or matter watched the mortal woman laugh, her fingertips painted a green to match the dress lightly pressing the forearm of the man she stood beside.

It was the same dress she had worn on the night he had first let himself be known to her, he realized dimly. It was, quite possibly, the only cocktail dress she owned. Somehow this idea was disappointing to him, but the sensation was not one he wished to chase further.

Instead, he watched her smile and fuss over the man she was with. A faint sense of something crept across his skin and he threw his consciousness closer. Jane Foster did not flirt. Not with other men. Not… but his confusion was quickly eased as he realized who the man was: Jane's beloved mentor, Erik Selvig. Whom he had treated possibly just a little less gently than he should have, knowing now that he would have to return to Midgard and not as its triumphant ruler.

Despite Loki's treatment, the older man looked little worse for wear. His eyes contained a weariness that stretched down the length and breadth of his soul, but they still held some glimmer of love and joy. The emotions were likely reserved almost entirely for the woman before him, however, as his smile was that of a proud father.

"Really, Jane," Loki heard him say softly, in a tone that carried a paternal warmth that somehow irked Loki's nerves, "I'm so proud of you. Of all you have accomplished."

Jane smiled adoringly up at the older man, relief and love painted across her features. "I wish I could take all the credit," she said, "But it was kinda just luck that Thor fell where he did, don't you think?"

"But that was only the start of it, Jane," Selvig told her, one of his hands reaching forward and grasping her shoulder. "What you did in continuing the work, even after SHIELD pretty much muzzled your work, that's what's brought you this!" he gestured about the room. Apparently the celebration was some sort of reception for the proper unveiling of Jane's Einstein-Rosen Bridge work, finally supported by the undeniable evidence of extraterrestrial beings who happened to also be Norse gods. What SHIELD could no longer hide, they allowed to be revealed in pomp and glory, a triumph of human achievement.

"I don't know," Jane said softly, twisting slightly below Selvig's hand and his regard. "There's so much you missed, I don't even know what to tell you…"

"And if I could take back my decision to work on the Tesseract," Selvig interjected remorsefully, "I would. It's my own fault I ended up in the position I did."

Jane shook her head and stared up Selvig with sadness in her eyes, "Don't say that, Erik," she murmured. "No one has the right to actually physically get into someone's head. That's just… a gross invasion of privacy. It's…"

Selvig's hand moved from Jane's shoulder to her chin, tucking her beneath the chin. Her face jerked upwards from its gradual descent into looking at the floor. "It's over, Jane," he told her earnestly, "What happened doesn't matter any more."

"But it does!" Jane insisted, her brown eyes flashing brilliantly as her chest heaved in consternation.

"No," Erik hushed, "It doesn't. We don't need to worry about lunatic Norse gods running around trying to take over the world anymore. Thor took that crazy brother of his back to Asgard, and with any luck that's the last anyone will ever see of him."

Jane looked up at Erik with a distance in her eyes and a slackness to her jaw. "Right," she agreed miserably. Loki decided she was a terrible liar, based entirely on this exchange.

"Now then," Erik said in a much brighter tone, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in lightly exaggerated excitement, "You still haven't told me how you managed to finagle yourself into access to the Very Large Array!"

If anything, Jane seemed to deflate further. Her gaze fell for a long moment before sweeping across the hall in which they stood. For an instant, Loki could have sworn her eyes stilled on the space where he would have been, had he created a projection to accompany his senses. He watched Jane push a wayward curl from her face, tucking it behind her ear thoughtfully. Her expression remained one of guilt for just a second longer before she smoothed out her features and took a deep breath.

"Let's just say," Loki heard her say as she turned her face back to Selvig, "That I made a deal with the devil and leave it at that?"

The words gave Loki pause as he allowed his senses to drift back across the divide and into his physical self. The devil, he mused. It was a role he had occasionally been assigned in Midgard's younger days, when he and Thor had traveled between realms with the zeal of adolescence and early adulthood. Every god of thunder and goodness had to have an evil shadow to balance him, after all.

It was a lie, of course. And his mother wanted him to play the hero. But, if the shoe fit…


	12. Chapter 12

Phyre sat perched upon a windowsill, her golden eyes fixed upon the statue-like form of the man beside her. The expression she wore was somewhere between fascinated and bemused. Her husband had turned out to be a complete and utter disappointment to her, but his magics still seemed to hold new levels of imagination to them. Even if he was using them to spy on a mortal woman. But that was just typical, she supposed. Asgardians had a long history of contracting strange obsessions for mortal lovers.

Licking her painted lips with her pointed tongue, Phyre studied Loki. He was handsome, though he seemed somehow less than the figure in her memories. She had made the offer for marriage because it had seemed like such a neat way to wrap things up. Marry a prince to appease the locals, use his birthright to tack a third realm to the package. Finally satisfy the curiosity that had been eating her since she had first come of age and used his memory for more… sensual purposes.

Yet, he was disappointing. So much quieter and less expressive than she remembered. In the days since his return to Asgard, he had done little more than mope. And visit his mother in the dungeons. What sort of king visited his adopted mother who couldn't even smile during the royal wedding? It was frustrating. Like going out to adopt a puppy and ending up with some sickened, lame creature who preferred to sleep. It was ruining her plans.

Phyre cocked her head to the side, imagining movement in his face. Perhaps it was her fault. She had built him up in her mind, evidently. Memories of a fascinated child had evolved into the daydreams of a passionate young woman. Rumour and legends from half a dozen worlds had further inflated the dream. It was evident now that she should have paid more attention to the part about "lies" and "deception." For now she found herself married to a boring man.

And Phyre had so much more planned for her life. She couldn't simply spend it dragging around a ball and chain when she had expected a powerful pet. She had kingdoms to rule, wars to start, and lovers to exhaust. There was really only one solution to a problem such as this.

She would have to get rid of Loki.

* * *

Phyre flung her luxurious, dark hair over her shoulder and sighed heavily. She was slumped across the throne in Asgard's royal throne room, her bare feet pointed at the arching ceiling. She wore a thin shift in warm colours that complimented her darker complexion.

"Arevik," she drawled indolently, "What are your thoughts?"

The slender demoness who occupied the throne was dwarfed by those who flanked her. To her right, stood the man she had addressed only moments before; to her left, stood Heimdall, his face impassive. Arevik, Phyre's most trusted general, had a complexion similar to Phyre's own. His close-cropped hair and neatly trimmed beard were black as soot, and his armour shone with a reddish warmth that only added to its warlike aura. As if to mirror the Asgardian guardian to Phyre's left, Arevik's own sword, equally massive as the one Heimdall carried, remained unsheathed. Mistrust and displeasure seemed to radiate from the dark man as he regarded not his empress, but the flaming sword within his grasp.

"My lady," he said finally, "I would advise that we keep potential enemies close…"

Phyre laughed, a harsh flash of mirth, "You would deem my husband, as melancholy as he is, a possible threat?"

Arevik seemed to glower into the distance, "If my lady would allow me to finish my analysis." Phyre leaned upwards from her lounging position to pat her general's arm consolingly. He seemed to calm slightly. "You would recall that I advised against this course of action?" he regarded her carefully, as if wary of her reaction. Upon her continued silence and attention he continued, "My lady, I have known you since you were slighter than an ash imp, and I know you have a fondness for your toys and your pets."

Phyre smiled broadly at the man, twisting in the massive throne so that her attention upon her general was more evident, "And you have something wise to say in regards to that fondness, I imagine, my dearest Arevik?

"Yes," he replied, the affection for his charge now evident on his harsh features. "I advise that you set aside possible distractions."

"So you agree?" Phyre chirped in delight. Her expression became downcast, "But you must also understand my concerns?"

Arevik nodded imperceptively, "Now that you have chosen a path, you cannot so simply dispose of him."

"Yes," Phyre sat up, folding her long fingers together and regarding her long, painted talons, "I may need him alive yet."

For a long moment, there was silence in Asgard's throne room. The creaking of heavy armour pierced it. "Heimdall?" Phyre prompted, swinging her attention around to the guardian.

"Empress," he said in a surprisingly soft tone, "Have you considered exile?"

Phyre's lips pursed and her forehead creased. "I have," she spat, "and I don't see how it could work, in light of the stories I have heard."

Heimdall was silent for a time before he prompted her. "Which stories, Empress?" he asked with great respect. "The ones that tell of his ability to slip from world to world without need of the Bifrost, perhaps?"

Phyre shot a dark glare at the man who was so much more massive than she. At her side, the general, Arevik, bristled, ready for action at the movement of his lady's wrist. "No," she snarled, "The ones where he becomes a dragon. Of course those stories!"

Heimdall straightened further, his eyes staring out across the stars no matter where he stood. "I can see all that there is to see," Heimdall began quietly, "I can hear all that there is to hear."

Phyre stared at him with vicious impatience, "And your point is?"

"Would it soothe your worried brow, my Empress, to know that I have seen no evidence of these tales?"

Phyre's expression melted into syrupy wonder and softness. "Is that so?" she murmured, rising slowly from the throne to stand before the guardian of the broken Bifrost. "Do tell," she purred, a single hand reaching outwards and sliding up the armoured chest piece of the Asgardian warrior.

"Loki," he paused, "Lord Loki," he amended, "Has ever been in Thor's shadow. As Empress, you are no doubt aware of his tendency towards falsehood and exaggeration?"

Phyre's nails scraped across the metal, a faint screech filling the hall. Neither Heimdall nor Arevik so much as blinked. Phyre paused in her actions, her graceful neck turning in the quiet space. "Embra," she snapped, lowly. Within moments, the shrill laughter of adolescent girls filled the quiet space. Annoyance fell across Phyre's face like a shadow.

"Your highness!" came a gasped expression from the room's farthest doorway. A young, blonde, slip of a girl fell into a deep curtsy, eyes downcast.

The action seemed to soothe some of Phyre's ire, but the cheek of the blonde's darker companion seemed to re-ignite it almost instantly. The golden fire-storm of Phyre's eyes watched the mocha-skinned girl flounce up the steps towards her, tossing a careless wink at Arevik before settling into her sister's stolen throne.

"Embra," Phyre snarled, "Get out of my throne."

Arevik's heavy hand settled upon the younger demoness with a heavy finality. An exasperated sigh fell from her lips. "You never let me have any fun," she pouted, in a manner that echoed Phyre.

"Then you should have stayed home," Phyre replied pertly, slinking back into her throne with a nasty swish of her tail. Embra was her father's baggage. A half-sister to Phyre, the creature was barely a millennia old, and typical of younger siblings anywhere. To Phyre, with her violent passions and vaulting ambitions, siblings were dangerous and undesirable, but as difficult to dispose of as unwanted husbands.

"If you let me go explore the realms," Embra was saying, her voice an irritating stream of noise that echoed painfully in the large space, "Then I'd be out of your hair."

"Alone?" Phyre smiled painfully, "Just what would our father say?" Phyre turned her attention to the young blonde who was lingering awkwardly near the foot of the throne's raised dais. "You," she commanded, "What's your name?"

The fair-skinned girl went pale, "Bryn," she squeaked.

Phyre sighed and waved the girl closer, "Come here," she ordered, gesturing lazily to a spot near her side.

Bryn mounted the steps with trepidation. "My name," she began, trembling slightly, "My name is Bryn."

"Vanir," Heimdall growled, the designation directed to Phyre, the tone toward the girl.

"Your highness!" the words tumbled from her lips. "My name is Bryn, your highness!"

Phyre laughed, an infectious and warm sound that rose and fell like flames lapping at the darkness. "Bryn," she said compellingly, "Are you finding my sister's companionship to be all you could hope for in a friend?"

The young Vanir looked utterly confused and out of her depth. "Yes?" she breathed nervously, her bright, blue eyes wide.

"Phyre!" Embra snapped, "You're doing it again!"

Phyre sunk into her throne with a merciless grin. "Doing what?" she asked innocently, her voice poisoned with evil mirth.

"Scaring my friends," the younger demoness sulked. "Your hands are on fire. Did you even notice?"

In point of fact, Phyre had not noticed. It was evidence of her sister's enervating presence, to her mind. Familial relations were not something she was comfortable with. She exhaled slowly, folding the flames of her true nature back into the glamour she wore. "What do you want, Embra?" she said finally, suddenly eager to be rid of the distraction of the girls' presence.

"I want to go to Midgard," Embra said succinctly. "When you were my age, you got to go there. And Bryn's been telling me about how all the Aesir go there. Fandral was just telling us about how much its changed and evolved. I want to see…"

Phyre shrugged, "And you won't. There's no way you can go alone."

Embra glared at her, eyes as golden as her own holding a total absence of affection. "Bryn would come with me," she snapped.

"Bryn?" Phyre turned to regard the Vanir youth, who was now trembling like a leaf. "Bryn?" she directed the inquiry at the girl in question. "Would you like that, Bryn?" she asked enticingly, "To see Midgard?"

The Vanir girl nodded emphatically. "Oh yes," her eyes flew up to Heimdall for a moment before continuing, "My Empress. I would love too! Thor and the Warriors Three and Sif… and Loki… they were all only just there. I would…"

"Loki," Phyre caught her husband's name and a queer sort of smile slipped across her lips. She rose from her throne to face Arevik, who had watched the entire exchange expressionlessly. "Weren't we just wondering what to do with my dear husband?" she murmured, catching her general's gaze in her own. "Wouldn't it be… useful of him to keep watch over my dear, dear sister and her companion?"

The trace of a mirthless grin crossed Arevik's thin lips. "As you say, my lady. It would certainly be most… useful."

Phyre crossed the few steps to Heimdall, staring up into his stone-like face. "You are certain you have seen no such thing?" she hissed venomously.

"I have seen no such thing, my Empress," Heimdall replied, his voice even and sure. "And I see all that there is to see,"

Phyre's expression softened into a smirk as she slipped back into her throne, regarding her sister. "You may go," she announced, "And it seems we have found a purpose for my pet after all. I only hope he's a good guard dog."

* * *

_A/N: Its short, but its important. Next chapter: Jane and Loki reunite. And can't you just tell what a good mood he'll be in? _


	13. Chapter 13

Deep down, Jane preferred her lab in Puente Antiguo. The gritty realism of doing fringe science on the fringe of civilization, on the edge of the desert and the unpolluted sky, struck a chord within her that was ultimately more authentic than the warm glow of pretend acceptance she'd felt during her short time in Tromso. She didn't stay. How could she stay? Knowing that it wasn't earned made her feel fake. She'd take reality over lies any day.

But there in itself was a depressing thought: lies. So many were wrapped around her now. Her mystery funding source, her mystery access to research equipment, her mystery quietness; these were just a few of Erik's new favourite enigmas. And how could she even begin to tell him the truth? Oh, by the way, Erik, my beloved mentor and adopted parental figure, you know that guy who stabbed you in the heart and hijacked your brain? Yeah, he's the mystery guy who's funding and enabling my research! Five guesses why he might be doing that.

Jane groaned aloud as the cheery, guilt-stricken voice in her head once again interrupted her work. She pushed her chair slightly away from her desk, letting her head fall heavily onto her arms, which folded themselves protectively over her laptop. There was a small part of her that told her, each and every day, to walk away from her research, or to at least stop dipping into what she had come to think of as the "Forbidden Funds." Forbidden not for lack of use, but for the reminder that using them was technically illegal, unethical, and wrong. Not just because they weren't real in the sense of having been issued by actual governments, but also because the money was essentially extorted from a criminal with blood on his hands.

She, Jane Foster, had extorted money from Loki, the Norse god and war criminal.

The wrongness seemed to extend on and on. Rationalization would work for a little while, and then she would be faced with the memory of him leaning in towards her, a manic gleam in his eyes and a bitter smirk on his face. It wasn't the words he'd said; she'd forgotten exactly what he had said by now. It was the way his gaze had looked into her and pointed out that she wasn't really any better than he was. The crime didn't matter, said that look, it was the moral bankruptcy behind it that condemned them both.

It was that look, that sentiment, that filled her with shame when she had to look Erik in the eyes and lie. Because how could she possibly tell him the truth? That there was every possibility that Loki might one day get free; that freedom wasn't even all that necessary in light of his ability to project himself, even when the Avengers had collectively thought him bound. That if he returned, he might well come to collect on her research. That all her work to understand the Bifrost, to perhaps even build one, would legitimately belong to the maniac immortal. It was a frightening thought, that Jane didn't really want to consider. Because what could she do? Fight? Refuse to give him the research? It was technically his to hear about, if she was going to still honour their original agreement. And if she refused to, would that make her a better person, or a worse one? Where did honour stand against preventing a war criminal from gaining the knowledge to build an Einstein-Rosen Bridge through space, and possibly, time?

Jane lifted her head, regarding the blurred time stamp on her laptop screen. One a.m. and she was alone with her thoughts and her research. She wondered what normal twenty-nine year olds were doing at this time. Sleeping, maybe? Cleaning up the daytime messes of their young children? Sitting and watching television with their significant others? Had she meant to shut those possibilities out of her life?

She shook her head, leaning up now so she hovered over her laptop's keyboard on her elbows. The worn fabric of her old sweater offered little cushion from the solid, old wood of the second-hand table. Jane pushed herself up from her seat, grabbing her long-empty water glass. Her eyes drifted over the coffee mug she'd been using and refilling for the past few days. She shrugged at the mug, more caffeine at this point would likely only worsen her headache, spawned of moral degradation as it was.

Denim, made comfortable by years of desert-living, clung to her legs as she shuffled out of the nook-like space that formed her office. She rubbed her eyes as she began the journey of twenty well-known paces to the kitchen sink. Her hand fell from her eyes just as she passed the stairway that led up to the rooftop. The movement of the dark shape that sat upon them caused her first to drop the glass, and then to scream.

"What the hell?" Jane shrieked at the figure. The silence that rushed in upon her eardrums in the aftermath of the fatal crash of glass breaking was almost unbearable. "Loki?" she gasped, her voice quieter now that she was looking at him properly.

He sat a few steps above the floor, his feet settling far enough below him for his knees to provide comfortable resting places for his elbows. His hands were clasped thoughtfully before him, and his attention had obviously been focused elsewhere, for even now he looked almost surprised to see her standing before him. Rather than wearing the armour of his failed invasion, or the designer suits of his invented persona, he wore what seemed to be somewhat loose-fitting, black clothes. Whatever fabric they were made of was evidently of fine quality, but the style was just beyond Jane's recognition. Normal clothes for Asgard, perhaps. In those few, fractured seconds, his expression suggested some sort of internal confusion. His eyes looked softer than Jane had seen them, and for a moment, she wondered what he had been like when he was younger. He couldn't have always been bad, she realized with a start. Not if he could look so completely… lost.

But the seconds passed and she watched him shake his head, only once, and very sharply, and when his gaze settled back onto hers it held all of the cool condescension it ever had. A nervous twitch ran down Jane's spine as she half-turned to look back at her makeshift office and then back at him. "How long have you been there?" she demanded, amazed once again at how strong her voice sounded, considering that she was addressing someone who had murdered more people than she could properly fathom.

"Long enough," he replied lightly, his eyes reflecting a mix of amusement and bitter spite at her. It took Jane an instant to realize that her eyes probably held a similar look for him.

"Long enough for what?" she challenged, her brain already going to work coming up with reasons she shouldn't be quite so snappy. Even if he was only a projection, she didn't really know how far his powers went, or what kind of limits there might be on them. Maybe demanding answers wasn't the brightest idea.

She watched his thin lips twitch into a smirk, enigmatically failing to answer. Instead his eyes swept across the space before him. He turned his head slightly, eyes focused on her.

Jane felt herself growing impatient with his game, whatever it was. She was standing in front of him, in the middle of a minefield of broken glass, in threadbare clothes she'd had since her undergrad days. The look in his eyes suggested that he was deriving some sort of amusement from the whole situation, and it was starting to make her blood boil. "Well?" she said finally, her tone conveying her frustration, "What do you want?"

"Come now, Miss Foster," he drawled, leaning back against the stairs now, "Surely you're aware of the fact that one day you need to pay the devil his due?"

Jane rolled her eyes. "So you're the devil now? Isn't that just a little egotistical? I mean, even for you?"

His eyes seemed to shine with even more amusement, "I'm simply playing the role you assigned, dear Jane."

Jane stared at him for a long moment, her mind racing as she placed her own words. "I knew it," she hissed, "I knew it!" She raised a finger and jabbed it toward his projected figure, "I could… sense you were there. Watching. Like… some sort of watching person." She was trembling now, almost incoherent with the rage that filled her at the thought of being followed and watched and… "Stalking!" she spat. "That's what we call it."

He simply looked amused. "Oh Jane," he said heavily, his eyelids drooping slightly, "You should calm down before you hurt yourself." With a wave of his hand, the hundred tiny fragments of glass around her lifted off the floor and glided, like a cloud of deadly edges and pinpricks, into his hand. Even as she blinked, the cloud of glass fragments became a solid glass. She watched him study the vessel, as if looking for imperfections. He rose then, stepping lightly down the few stairs between them. The glass remained in his hand, now extended towards her in offering.

Jane looked from the glass to Loki, failing to make the connection as her brain frothed on in outrage. "You do not get to follow me around, spying on me," she snapped, "And… fixing things!" She jabbed her finger at him once more, this time misjudging the now shrunken distance. Her finger encountered the firmness of soft cloth-covered chest and Jane froze.

"Not projected?" she squeaked, her finger retracting and poking again, the scientific method overruling the preservation instinct that likely should have guided her actions. Once again, her fingertip encountered matter. Jane swallowed reflexively, her gaze flickering up from that very solid chest to the eyes that gazed down at her in superiority and amusement.

"Not projected, Jane Foster," he repeated, his free hand curling around her still-poking finger and pulling it from his person. Still holding her hand, he rotated her wrist, elegant fingers prying her clenched hand open.

Jane felt herself swallow again, her mouth so much drier than she'd thought it was when she first risen from her desk to get water. Loki's eyes bore down into her own, the laughing condescension in them making her feel small and foolish, and regretful of her tone and fury. And yet, the touch of his hand upon hers was possibly the most singularly terrifying part of the whole scene. Because his touch was so light, so painfully slow, but it spoke of such power, that Jane felt frozen. He brought his hand below hers, supporting it so that it was palm up and for one horrific moment, Jane remembered that her hand _knew what his lips felt like_.

Loki placed the reconstructed glass onto her open palm and Jane nearly fainted.

It took a moment for her to reclaim her wits and her dignity, but once found, Jane screwed them to the sticking point. She snatched her hand and its cargo of the now unbroken glass away from his grasp, her expression as feral a snarl as she'd ever managed. Spinning on her heel, Jane practically sprinted the remaining distance to her kitchen and yanked the water tap up. Water came tumbling and splashing into the sink and Jane thrust the glass under. Pulling it half-full from the torrent, she slurped the water noisily, patiently ignoring the Norse trickster god in her hallway in favour of wetting her stupidly dry throat.

Jane Foster _did not_ find war criminals attractive. Nor did the memory of their kiss upon the back of her hand make her want to turn to jelly. She certainly did not find the sense of danger and mystery interesting. She had beaten down that sort of self-destructive, painfully stupid and adolescent desire years and years before. She was not some seventeen-year-old girl in a bad young adult romance novel. She knew better than to be pulled in by the seductive nature of evil things.

And it didn't matter. Jane shook her hair back, calmly refilling the glass. It was all irrelevant. Because she did not find Loki attractive. Not in the least. At least, that was what she told herself when she finally turned back around to find him leaning against the opposite counter, smirking at her with wicked eyes.

"So," Jane said in a voice that she hoped sounded as cool and collected as it was supposed to, "Devil collecting his due. What do you want?"

"Your help, Miss Foster," he replied silkily. "You see, I plan on building a Bifrost."

Jane felt her stomach twist sickeningly. It was all her worst fears from the previous hour come to haunt her in person. "You just expect me to help you?" she replied, the frown on her face audible in her tone.

"Yes," he snapped back. There was a pause as Jane debated internally just how she was going to fight this. He'd never threatened her with violence, or even suggested it was within the realm of possibility, so maybe she wouldn't die. But then again, the reality of television and SHIELD reports suggested a different outcome for her if she resisted. Maybe it would be better to just pretend to work with him…

Where before his body language had been relaxed, it was now jarringly sharp and angular. There was something else going on, Jane realized. His distant look of confusion from the stairwell flashed across her mind's eye and Jane's brain went whirring away with theories and possibilities. After all, what on earth was Loki doing _on Earth_ and in person, when Thor had supposedly (unless SHIELD reports lie) taken him back to Asgard for punishment.

His gaze was hard upon her, as if he could follow the path of her thoughts. And for a long moment, Jane wondered where all of this was going. Just what she would be forced to do.

And then the moment passed and the limits of possibility solidified. Choices and possible futures branched, and then were suddenly made concrete.

"Yes," Loki repeated, softer now, "Because the whole universe is at stake."

Jane stared at Loki. "I thought…" she whispered, "I thought you were out to destroy the universe?"

Loki looked at her with something Jane almost dared to call chagrin. "So did I," he admitted, "So did I."


	14. Chapter 14

Loki could taste the moment the game plan changed. It had extended into eternity, that branch point between universes. He could continue to play the game he'd invented, forcing Jane Foster to bend to his will or, he could tell her the truth and accept that the innate goodness of her would make her decide to help him. It would mean admitting that she, with all her mortal failings, was as necessary and important to the fate of the universe as he was. It meant yielding some small amount of his superiority in favour of some inkling of equality.

And as such, it tasted bitter on his tongue. In the light of his failed conquest, of his sense of betrayal, of his abiding rage at Thor, the first choice was infinitely preferable. But it would fail. He knew, deep in the core of him, that it was the choice that would ultimately cost him everything. Jane Foster could not be bullied into serving him, no more than the Avengers could. He had finally come to recognize these moments. Had faced too many of them recently. As bitter as it was to swallow, the lesson was learned.

He would have to tell Jane Foster the truth. Or at least some small part of it. What he hadn't anticipated was that it would have a strange sort of relief about it. But there it was.

"I thought you were out to destroy the universe?" Jane said quietly, her voice subconsciously responding to the hush that had slipped into his own voice.

"So did I," he admitted, "So did I."

For a long time she regarded him with suspicion. They stood there, in her lab's paltry little kitchenette, under the yellow-orange light of a worn-out light bulb for what felt like ages before she spoke, "So when you say the universe is at stake, what do you really mean?" Her eyes held the same challenge in them that he had grown accustom to seeing in mortals. They seemed to have no end to their suspicions; they apparently needed reasons and details simply to decide whether they were to act at all. It was a far cry from the unwavering faith and obedience expected in most of the other realms.

"I mean," he ground the words out, wondering already why this had seemed the better choice, when it would require things like patience, "That a usurper sits upon Asgard's throne, and intends to use that power to launch an attack on the remaining realms."

"Alright," she stood still, the fingers of one hand tapping nervously across the edge of the stainless steel sink behind her, "Let's say I believe you, which is just… crazy, but let's assume that I do. How exactly did they manage to take the throne?" The incredulity in her voice was quickly draining him of the desire to explain things to the petite mortal.

So Loki stared at her for a long time instead, hoping that perhaps she would simply accept that he was the higher being and that she should be jumping to do as he bid, not wasting time with questions. Unfortunately, she seemed to have far more patience than he did, and a strength of will equivalent to Director Fury.

"Apparently," he let the word drip with irritation, "Odin required so much power to send Thor here, to Midgard, that he managed to drop off into an Odinsleep, leaving the throne rather empty. By the time Thor returned us to Asgard, the battle, or whatever there may have been of one, was long over."

"And Thor just let that happen?"

He could _hurt_ her for the tone she had said that in. The simple naivete of her statement, as if Thor's strength and goodness could never be doubted, redoubled the anger and frustration he felt. "Why?" he replied, pushing himself up from the counter he had leaned against, advancing the few steps it would take to assert his height over the misguided mortal. "Is he so mighty that there couldn't be something stronger than him? Is he so wonderful that he couldn't ever let you down?"

She looked at him in surprise. Her brown eyes wide and soft as his words rang in her ears. She was so diminutive compared to him, her neck thrown back just to meet his gaze. "Let me down?" she murmured in wonder, seemingly half to herself, "What do _I_ matter?" Her eyes grew clearer, the suspicion and curiosity in them growing. "I just thought, when he didn't… obviously Asgard is important to him. Duty and honour are pretty much his reason for existing, aren't they?"

Between her words and the question in her voice, Loki understood. Jane Foster expected nothing of Thor for herself, and quite evidently believed that Thor felt nothing for her. "The creature who's taken Asgard's throne was able to completely incapacitate him with little more than a look," he told her, watching her brain process the information.

"So they must be pretty bad ass, whoever this is," Jane said quietly. She looked ready to say something else then. Loki narrowed his eyes at her, and watched the impulse drain from her features with a sense of disappointed triumph. The urge to exert his power was somehow stifled by wanting to hear just what she would dare to say to him.

He watched her take a deep breath and take a short step back from him that ended with her back crushed to the edge of the counter behind her. "So, why do you care?" she asked in an exhaled rush. "I mean, obviously you were able to use whatever happened as an opportunity to escape. Why not just… run? Why stay? Why come here? Why care?" Her eyes were wide, her breathing strained, but it was his turn to take a step back.

Loki could only shrug in response. He turned lightly, taking the few steps from the kitchenette to the meager living space. He regarded the clothing-strewn couch with disinterest and a sense of having fallen further than he had ever dreamed. He had no answer for the human, because, quite simply, he had been wondering the same thing for days now. It was possible that the last straw had been Phyre's decision to make him some sort of royal babysitter, but the reality was that a decision had been made days before Heimdall had apparently learned to lie. The real cause was probably his mother, with her unshakeable love and faith. There was nothing in the nine realms of the world tree that would ever bring him to tell such a thing to Jane Foster, however.

He turned his head to gaze out the window at the desert beyond. Miles upon miles of sand that looked almost blue in the moonlight stared back at him. Emptiness seemed to resonate these days. "I think," he said finally, "It's not so much that I want to save Asgard, or the universe, as I want to be the one who rules it, and as long as someone else is attempting it, I cannot."

"So you expect me to just hand you an Einstein-Rosen Bridge so you can free Asgard, and then turn right back around and try to take over Earth again?"

Her voice carried a wavering note to it, just behind the false bravado, as if she wasn't quite certain herself that this was the right fight to pick. It was enough hesitation that he could work upon it, without admitting that freeing Asgard would likely not be enough to win his freedom, not when it was he who had lent the usurper legitimacy. For he did not plan to take on this unlikely burden of good, only to find himself in chains once more. Honour didn't mean much to him, and he would sooner use the confusion of the Aesir being freed to ensure his own escape, than to fight the ultimate battle himself.

"It has been made very clear to me that Midgard does not want a King," he said simply.

"And I'm supposed to just trust you on that?"

Loki turned to look at the mortal who seemed to just _keep pushing_. He was exhausted. In every way he could imagine. And the creature in worn clothing, illuminated in artificial light, seemed ready to ask questions all night.

"How old are you, Jane?" he heard the question leave his lips.

Perhaps the only value of it having been asked was the delightfully off-balance look she gave him in return. "What?" she stuttered, "What does that have to do with anything?" He just stared at her expectantly, knowing that her curiosity would get the better of her this time. "I'm twenty-nine," she said finally, "Why? How old are you?"

Loki nodded, more to himself than anything. It must be terribly freeing to live such a short time and yet feel so certain about the world. Like being a child, never having faced the vagaries of the world or the inevitable betrayal that only time could bring. "I've lived for nearly three thousand Midgardian years," he said quietly, willing to play the game of an answer-for-an-answer if it meant a moment of distraction.

He heard the inarticulate gasp of surprise and smirked half-heartedly. "Thor is the same," he added preemptively, watching Jane's expression pass through half a dozen emotions before forcing her expression to settle at overwhelmed.

"You really are the Norse gods," she murmured softly, her head tilted as if to study the peeling laminate flooring under her feet, "I mean, you aren't gods… but… you are them."

"Yes," he said quietly, knowing the burden of myth and legend that placed on even his own shoulders, and knowing equally how foolish and invented much of it was.

"So how much of the myths are true?" Her head lifted to give him a wry smile, wonder and discovery too important to her not to share.

"The sheer number of things you mortals got wrong vastly outweighs the amount you got right," he replied flippantly, "If that's what you're asking."

"And are you going to bring about the end of the universe?" she challenged, "Ragnarok?" Her hands did some sort of skittish, dancing movement in the air before her, the movement fascinating him on a purely observational level.

"That remains to be seen." He folded his arms across his chest, wary of the likely oncoming stream of questions.

"I guess that's better than a yes," she muttered quietly. Her eyes ghosted over him, her lips thin and her expression pained. "I still can't build a Bifrost, you know." She looked wretched, as if she couldn't quite believe her own words. Her hands hung limply, fingers twitching about each other, "I still don't even know what exotic dark matter _is_…"

Loki raised a hand, a faint smile slipping across his lips as he remembered a half-forgotten conversation with this same mortal. "Magic," he said, finally willing to give voice to the single word she needed to unlock the power all her research had been leading her to. In his open hand, he conjured a purple-black mass. Magic, concentrated but unformed, slithered across his skin; it had the weightless feeling of pure power that he had come to know so well.

Her eyes grown wide, Jane came closer, one slow step at a time. "Magic?" she breathed, fear and wonder and incredulity mixing with a yearning so deep that Loki could hear it echo in his own memory. Her hand stretched out before her, shaking, as she came ever nearer. The moment before she could touch the stuff, he closed and twisted his hand, disappearing it from her reach.

The catch of breath in her throat sounded more like a sob than a sigh, and for a moment, Loki almost felt bad for taunting her in such a way. "Can't I?" her voice held a pleading tone that must have surprised even her, for in the blink of an eye, she had pulled herself away and straightened slightly, her expression closed off.

"It takes years of training just to do the simplest of work," he chided her, his smile almost apologetic.

"But it can be learned?" Trust Jane Foster to pick up on the things she wanted to hear, Loki mused.

"It can," he agreed, leaning forward and bending just enough to look her dead in the eyes, "But it changes you. It's dangerous. It has its own plans for the universe."

"You make it sound like its conscious," she scoffed, her head shaking in disbelief.

"It is," he replied, raising an eyebrow at her lack of imagination. "Of a sort, anyway."

The look that crossed her eyes then was one he did know. And one that told him, quite unequivocally, that he had found the carrot that would bend Jane Foster's will to his own, regardless of moral qualms and issues of allegiance.

"You could teach me," she said then, her brown eyes telling him that she had followed his own line of thought.

"For a price, Miss Foster," he smiled darkly.

He watched her consider the offer. The key to making her research whole, the power source necessary for her bridges and doors to work, the childlike desire to have something no one else had: he offered her so much. For such a small thing: her conscience.

Jane Foster swallowed hard, her caramel eyes staring into his own as if she were trying to read his motivations there. "Deal," she said finally, the word holding an element of self-recrimination, even as she thrust her hand toward him.

But he didn't care about her petty moral conundrums, or about the questions she hadn't asked. There was a new game plan now. One that he could actually live with. He seized her outstretched paw and shook it. "Deal," he purred.


	15. Chapter 15

_Well, there's a thousand excuses I could make about why this chapter is so very excruciatingly late, but they would only fill up space. Instead, I humbly ask apology and hope you simply enjoy this. _

In retrospect, Jane will always remember this moment as the one in which she realizes that she has made a terrible mistake. It is not the moment she lets Loki seize her hand into a death grip that seals a deal she does not fully understand. Partially because Loki zips back out of her life the next moment, his smirk engraved in her mind like the Cheshire Cat's smile, hanging alone in mid-air. She spends the rest of that night feeling a little like Alice. The place where physics becomes magic must be something akin to a rabbit hole.

No, the moment she realizes she has made a mistake comes slowly, on the heels of three days spent drifting through her lab, wondering exactly how she is supposed to make good on her end of the deal when, quite frankly, she needs to pick Loki's brain before she can even begin to make progress towards completing her theory on how a Bifrost is built. Three days are spent numbly flipping through research, staring at data, rereading old favourites from the literature. Three days that feel completely wasted, now that her mind has settled itself upon a new field of research and understanding: magic. It alone holds the secret to making all the theories work, to putting the theories into practice. Perhaps more importantly, it is the secret doorway to the stars that she has always dreamt of. It is all hers. Or it will be, when the so-called god chooses to reappear.

Then suddenly, at some point between her third and fourth cups of coffee, he is there. A black and green presence that she does not need to turn to look at to recognize. After all, she knows no one else who can pull the trick of suddenly appearing in time and space. "Jane Foster," his voice slips around her like a serpent, "Have you figured out how to build me a Bifrost yet?"

Jane does not turn around to reply, knowing that the words might die on her lips at the sight of him, though she is not yet sure if it will be because of fear or guilt. "How, exactly, am I supposed to do that when you haven't even started to give me the tools to do it with?" she snaps, rustling papers around in front of her brusquely, as if the sound of their shuffling could communicate her feelings.

"Oh, dearest Jane," he mocks, slinking towards her until his presence is tangible. Coldness seems to sweep off of him, as if he has just come inside from the coldest winter day. It radiates towards her and sends a chill down the back of her bare neck. "Have you been waiting for me?"

There is delight in his voice. A wicked sort that flavours the tone of it with chocolate and something far more bitter. If Jane were a lesser woman, she would say that it sent thrills down her spine. Instead, she convinces herself that the only thing her spine feels is chilled, and even that only because the man is literally throwing off cold. Despite these cognitions, this is still the moment she realizes she has made a terrible mistake. Because there is nothing good that can come out of something that can inject _delight_ into Loki's voice. Because the only thing Jane has seen bring anything remotely like delight to him is power. And the knowledge that she has played into his hands, and given so much of her own power over to him, burns just enough to make her eyes water for a moment as the potent burst of shame and guilt reminds her of how utterly she has betrayed her mentor, and perhaps, though she hates to even think of him, Thor.

The moment passes. Jane is made of tougher stuff than this, and her ambition demands that she focus, as her pride forces her to straighten in her seat. It takes only a second for Loki to slip sideways, so he is now in her field of view. He is wearing his armour, the metal frosted over as if he actually has come from somewhere very cold very quickly. She observes this and tucks the fact away, wondering how many worlds exist out there, and just how many of them might be sub-zero in nature.

With a casual movement of his graceful hands, the panels of the armour shuffle into movement. It is a strange sight, and Jane finds herself staring as the shining metal shrugs itself from his shoulders and folds into a neat package in his hands. With a turn of his wrist, the whole set is gone, seemingly erased from existence.

"Lesson the first," he intones, as he pulls a free chair out from the table Jane sits at, "There is more to the universe than what you can see, Jane Foster, and you can see much more of it than you believe."

Jane's lips twitch with a will of their own. "Should I be inscribing these words of wisdom as we go?" she chirps insolently, amused by the gravity of his voice and the riddle-like quality of the words.

She meets his gaze. There no word for it beyond icy. "Only if you believe your fragile, mortal brain cannot remember what I tell you."

It's a rebuke, insulting enough to make Jane bristle. At the same time, a begrudging voice in her head is telling her to shut up and _pay attention_ and just _be grateful_ that she, alone of any human she knows, is getting lessons in _magic_. "You're right," she hears her own voice say quietly, "There's no chance I'll forget this."

As soon as the words are out, she wonders what she has done. The look on his face is instantly warmer, the lines of his lips softened as if on the verge of a bemused smile. She wonders if he knows how much he gives away when he gets what he really wants: acknowledgement. She tucks away those two magical words that caused such a change in his demeanor into a separate file in her mind. One she immediately labels, "Pacifying Loki."

She listens quietly then, as he speaks. His voice is quiet now, a contrast to the usual imperiousness. It is as if talk of magic is too close to his heart to let things like pride and personal feelings really touch it. Jane recognizes that, in a vague way. It's the same way she talks about astrophysics.

He details energies and masses that she already has names for, but explains them in ways that make her head spin. The seeming illogic of quantum phenomenon becomes logical, in that magic is mercurial. All that she believes she knows about the cosmos, is only half of the story. It's like the moment when Thor took her notepad and sketched out the Yggdrasill, only more, because where Thor had only the vaguest grasp of the concepts, Loki is an expert. He weaves the narrative with the skill of a practiced physics professor and the assurance of a Nobel Laureate, and Jane wonders how someone so eloquent could have been reduced to the spiteful speeches that had been televised the world over.

"So," she says finally, her eyes wide with absorbed knowledge, thoughts racing to match terminology and align her understandings, "There's two aspects to magic then. The actual doing of the magic and the magic… stuff itself?"

He looks amused, which she supposes is better than some of the alternatives. "Basically, yes," he accedes, leaning back into the chair he has been sitting in for an amount of time that Jane has long since lost track of. His dark eyes are peering at her strangely, and Jane feels the weight of assessment as certainly as she felt it during her doctoral dissertation.

"And the magic stuff," she continues, "It's like an interface. It allows the actual doing of magic to effect the universe." He nods slowly, eyes still evaluating her. "But how do you get it there?" she asks. It is the piece of the puzzle that is alluding her. This exotic energy, this magic stuff that she needs in order to do anything at all. How does she gather it? How does she create it? The questions swirl in her mind as she applies what Loki has revealed to her existing ideas about the workings of the Bifrost.

"You don't," he says abruptly, "It puts you there."

She could follow the archaic Norse terms. She could piece together an understanding of a universe that contained magic. She could even find the parallels between physics and Loki's description of the universe. But he has very suddenly lost her. So she stares at him as if he has the two heads she'd always half-expected aliens to have.

He smirks at her lack of comprehension. "Magic _wants_ to change the universe. It wants to be used, and once it finds a user, it will constantly track them. It haunts you, lingers like a presence in the back of your mind, suggesting helpful ways you could be using it."

Jane licks her lips nervously. She is a half-step away from jumping ship on this whole venture. "You make it sound like it's conscious," she says in a forced expression of mirth, an awkward laugh caught somewhere in her throat.

Loki looks at her for a long time, stretching the awkward, tense moment for her blossoming understanding until Jane thinks the tension might break her. He takes a slow breath, "It is."

"How could that be possible?" she asks, her voice filled with the tight bewilderment and skepticism that characterizes the moments her scientific mind takes over. "How could it be possible for all of human kind to be oblivious to a conscious presence that permeates the entire universe?"

His eyes are swimming in mirth now, and Jane realizes that this fact, this ignorance, is one part of what makes humans so pathetic and small compared to the rest of the universe. It isn't until much, much later that Jane realizes that in teaching her magic, Loki is systematically stripping away the things that make her a pathetic mortal.

"Do you see now why it's dangerous?" he asks her quietly. "A conscious thing forever pushing to change the universe. Watching and guiding your footsteps."

Jane looks at him, her heart somewhere in her stomach. "Yes," she whispers, understanding that he is a case in point, and that he is asking her to see this, without ever directing attention to the fact. He is allowing her to see some small weakness or downfall in his own nature, and that isn't something she can take lightly.

"But you still want to learn?" he asks quietly. "Even knowing this?"

His eyes are piercing her, and Jane feels understanding wash over her like a wave. He is warning her, against his own nature, that this is a one-way trip. That the loneliness that surrounds him like a cloak is partly a construct of the choices he has made. It is a self-awareness that her understanding of him has previously denied. She thought he was a monster; she didn't realize that he knew this fact. She never believed the idea that knowledge was a forbidden fruit, that it could actually steal innocence.

With a twist of his hand, he has summoned the seemingly electric cloud of blackened purple that is the physical manifestation of magic. Jane lets her gaze fall to the twisting shape for a moment before bringing it back up to Loki's face. He isn't looking at her anymore, only at the ball of magic in his hands. It isn't the knowledge that has poisoned him, she realizes with a certainty that she hopes is not born of denial. It is the power. Power corrupts. It is a fact that everyone knows, and knows well. Knowledge of magic can't hurt you, only the power that comes of using it can.

This is why he is giving her this one last chance to step away from his deal. She has enough now to begin the process of unraveling the creation of a Bifrost. She knows where the power will come from. She knows who can do the actual creation. She can let him take the weight of this. Let him have the glory and the blame. Let him face the temptations and fears alone, as he has for longer than she can properly fathom.

Or she can take him up on the deal to teach her to be more like him.

By the time the weight of the decision has fully trickled through her consciousness, Jane knows that her decision had already been made years ago. She always existed on the edges of things. She always felt alone and powerless. She just never realized that it made her monster, until she looked up from her musing to find that her hand was already on Loki's, immersed in the cloudlike ball of magic.

Sometimes, the sadness and triumph in his eyes at that moment haunts her.


	16. Chapter 16

Loki has attempted to teach the basic concepts and constructs of the universe and magic before, only to give up in near-immediate disgust. Young Aesir are predisposed to the excitement and physical challenges offered by weapons training and the exploration of other worlds. Only a few actually possess the ability to use magic, and only a handful of those are willing to leave the safety of popular opinion. Willing or otherwise free of such opinions, anyway. The origins of Loki's own predispositions are much more evident now, but the step or two between himself and the crowd has always been as much to blame for the hold magic has over him. The venture Frigga had composed, in which he would use his talents to instruct the younger Aesir in magic and instill a respect for it, if nothing else, failed precisely because of it.

Loki's connection with magic is unlike that of his adopted parents. For them, magic is useful at times, but rarely a first choice. It is less insidious, for they embraced it with greater age and wisdom, in a much younger age of the universe. The limits of their relationship with the power were established more evenly, for they were already wary and magic, as a consciousness, possessed far less guile. For Loki, magic was itself refuge, friend, and mentor. In him, it found a willing vessel, eager for something greater than the Aesir world that always seemed to not-quite-fit. Even now, millennia later, he cannot find fault with the power for demanding so much from him. For it has given even as it has taken, and in the end, it is the one companion that has never failed him; it is the balm for the wound, no matter that the wound is worsened by it.

Jane is unlike the young Aesir who so revolted his nature. With their boisterous disregard, he could no more bring himself to speak of magic than he could around Thor, who seemed to almost lack the sensitivity to even acknowledge the presence of magic within their world. Jane, however, leans in towards him as he begins to describe the form and structure of the universe. Her eyes are wide, her attention rapt, and all the longing and hunger he has ever felt to simply _know_ and be a part of that glorious universe, is in her eyes as well.

Which is why he feels a moment of hesitation. Magic has been everything for him, but he is not blind. The power it offers has ever been his downfall. His weaknesses are pride, an inflexibility born of too much solitude, and entitlement. He knows them. He is too old not to. He also knows that without magic, and the power it promises, he may have since been able to face them down, to soften them, even against the sting of betrayal and lies. Magic has not made him a better person, and that does seem to be a concept that matters to Jane Foster, even if he has long since sacrificed such ideals. It is a fair trade, her attention and appreciation in exchange for a moment of consideration and mercy.

He summons the magic to his grasp. It sits comfortably there, like a pet. He cannot help this much. He is too set in his ways not to tempt her into taking the path he has offered. Magic is the key to controlling Jane Foster, after all, and he is loathe to lose what little power he can command.

Her hand settles into his before she has even consciously made the decision. He knows this, because it falls there with a feather-like grace, pulled by compulsions and needs deeper than those she likes to acknowledge with her scientific worldview. Her eyes lift to his with an awareness that he hasn't seen there before. An acceptance in her own heart that she is more (and less) than she has previously believed.

He is triumphant. Even offered an escape, the tiny mortal has come to him willingly, placing herself under his power. He has offered her more than he will take, by agreeing to teach her magic, but he doubts that she will ever really know this. There are wars stirring in the heavens, and despite what he has told her, he doesn't doubt that they will affect Midgard in some way or another.

It is a smaller part of him that feels sorrow for her. Jane Foster is greater than most mortals. It isn't just some weakness of Thor's that she won a place in the thunderer's heart. Jane is brighter, more earnest, more open, and in many ways, more courageous. She will lose something of this, in bending to his will, in learning of magic. The magic will change her. He will change her.

But none of that really matters.

He smirks at her, pulling his hand away slowly, letting the ball of violent energy settle into Jane's own grasp. Her fingers twitch in the wraithlike presence of the magic and he knows she can feel the power, the itch it starts in your fingers and soul, when he hears her breath hitch in her throat.

"Its beautiful," she whispers, her voice breaking slightly on the syllables as her eyes remain riveted. "I had no idea," she breathes. There is a solemn note in her tone, a hint of having come home to something. It's a sound that tugs on his heart because he is familiar with the feeling behind it. It is not quite beyond him, the ability to see a kindred spirit in someone mortal, though he is far from willing to admit to any sort of kinship with the creature before him. She is tool to be used, not an equal to confide in.

"I believe you have enough then, to begin your work," he says finally, pulling her gaze back towards him.

There is awe and wonder in her eyes, and though it pains him to see it, gratitude as well. "I," she begins, her voice failing on the simple sound as she ducks her head to look back at the purplish mass that is slowly beginning to dissipate into its natural, undetectable form. "I do, yes," she says finally, her hand slowly freeing itself as she pulls herself back together. "There's so much… I can…" her look is suddenly frantic, "I need something to write with!" she exclaims finally.

Her hands fly across her table in search of the tools of her trade. "I can reconcile the symmetry of matter and dark energy…" she trails off as she finds paper and pencil and sets to scratching the equations in her mind into physical reality. He watches her for a moment, bemused with the pet scientist he has somehow ensnared, before he turns and steps through the gap in space-time that appears in the moment he expects it to.

* * *

Loki has spent entire Midgardian years traveling the stars in his particular manner. There are only a few species who have elevated themselves to a point where they can comprehend the universe on the level needed to even fathom the concept of doorways in time and space, and among those species, only a very few individuals ever fully understand and master the art as he has. For this reason, he is known as a god-figure in many mythologies beyond those of Midgard. He commands great power, and he knows how to rally armies.

Unfortunately, he has squandered many of the resources and connections he once had. Recent events and the unsavoury partnership he made in his attempts to accomplish imperfect goals have destroyed the faith entire races held in him. The universe talks, as it turns out, and you never realize how many friends and colleagues you had until they turn a cold shoulder on your attempts to re-establish contact.

It doesn't stop him, however. He is not certain how long Heimdall has really bought him out of Phyre's sight. He is haunted by the memory of his mother, the Queen of Asgard, barred into a dungeon. He feels like he is living on the edge of a knife. One wrong move and he will have lost the game. He is at his best because of it. He is also exhausted. He keeps moving.

One moment he is in a galaxy on the far edge of the universe, bartering with relatively primitive civilizations (everything is relative since he has come to realize that at least some members of Midgard's primitive species are close to comprehending even his own power). The next moment he is sending cautious messages of peace to probe at Alfheimr, hoping through a veil of lies and deceit to determine the depth, or perhaps just existence, of any treaty or alliance with Phyre and Muspell. He blinks and he is somewhere on Midgard, closing his eyes against the indiscretions of the two females he has been officially given charge of. He is failing at this task, dividing his time as he is between all the worlds he knows. He just does not care. He only checks in to give some illusion of watchfulness and control. By the time he has come this far, he finds himself stumbling into the only safe space he has left: Jane Foster's apartment.

* * *

"Loki?" her voice is quiet, but it shakes Loki to the core. "Are you… sleeping on my couch?"

He opens his eyes narrowly. He is not weak, and he refuses to let a mortal perceive him as such. Still, there is no credible reason for him to be unconscious on said mortal's battered furniture, in what passes for her abode. "You weren't here," he says accusatively. He knows she will jump to being defensive, and that should neatly chase this event from her mind.

Her eyes, wide and curious before, harden. Her lips grow tight as her expression cools. "I have a life, you know. I'm allowed to leave my lab. You're the one who disappears for a week without a word." She's glaring at him now. "You're the one who owes me lessons!" she exclaims finally, impatience in her tone.

Loki rises quickly from his reclined position, pulling himself smoothly from the soft cushions and worn fabric until he is at least sitting upright. He is still tired. More than tired. He is drained. The cushions call to him, despite their wear and faint smell of dog. He knows he is in bad shape. He would have to be, to feel such longing for such meager conditions.

"Lessons," he echoes dully. He catches her staring at him. The sharpness in her eyes is softening again, and he imagines he can feel her pity washing over him. He has been conscious of her presence for a total of 145 seconds and he is already past irritation with her. Midgardian mortals are insufferable. He has a basis for comparison. The mortals of Phentoth Five are at a similar level of technological development, and they manage to be properly acquiescent and helpful. Entirely unlike Jane Foster, who is still staring at him with comforting, caramel eyes.

"Lessons require focus," he spits out.

"I'm not the one off in dreamland," she retorts, huffing quietly as she turns her back to him.

If he had any real energy, he would stalk after the tiny, insolent creature. Instead, he follows Jane Foster with his eyes. He watches silently as she moves into her kitchen area. He now notices the plastic grocery bags she carries, the flimsy plastic handles wound tightly around her wrists. She disappears from his sight and he is left with just the sound of her unpacking various items of food and putting them away. Cupboard doors open and shut, the refrigerator door creaks, cutlery clatters. He listens to it all as if he is underwater.

In what feels like the passing of a moment, she is back in the room with him. She is holding a plate, and Loki watches uncomprehendingly as she thrusts it towards him. "I know it isn't much. I mean, it's a great sandwich, but you're… well, you were royalty, weren't you?"

Jane is babbling again. Loki looks from the plate with its bread-like burden to Jane. She is staring at him with what he can only describe as nervous concern. "You look hungry," she finally sputters, "And exhausted."

He can't process this. He won't.

"If you want to sleep, you can. The couch is yours. I… we can do the lessons later. I can wait. Really."

Jane Foster is completely earnest when she says this. Loki is a master of lies and deception, and there is not a single trace of either on her face. There is no sarcasm in her tone. There is no demand or expectation. There is, instead, something unsaid behind her eyes. Words that echo through time in her own voice to his ears: _I care about you_.

In his current state, Loki can't hold up the walls he ought to. He should remind himself that she hates him, that she is a tool, that she is only a pathetic mortal. Instead, he is reminded that her words, when said on the evening before his anticipated triumph, had warmed him like a mid-winter thaw. She isn't saying them now, but her actions and her eyes are betraying her.

Loki accepts the plate. He isn't entirely sure what a sandwich is. It's one of the finer points of Midgardian culture and cuisine he hasn't yet bothered with. He eats it anyway.

Jane flutters around the room shuffling papers. She doesn't say another word, though he can tell she wants to. She rearranges a stack of glossy-covered journals before flinching to a halt. She turns on her heel and scurries into the kitchen. Moments later, she has reappeared, once again wordless. She holds out a cup of water to him, and Loki feels nothing but a wave of disbelief. He knows that he expects this sort of deferential servitude from most lesser creatures. She is, for once, acting the part she is supposed to.

But he knows this isn't it. Jane Foster does not serve anyone but herself. What she is doing now is simply consideration and thoughtfulness. It is what she would show toward a colleague, or a friend, in a time of a need.

She sweeps the empty plate out of his hands and is leaving the room before he can fully process any of this.

"Thank you, Jane," he hears himself say quietly. He isn't entirely sure that she hears it.


	17. Chapter 17

The Norse god of mischief and lies is adorable, Jane realizes with the sort of realization that she figures must usually belong to those who are about to drown. It has been over a week since Loki last crashed into her life, feeding her the precious information that has had her franticly re-writing most of the major laws and theories of physics to include the factor represented by magic.

Her brain has been spinning, and she has had the strangest sensations in the back of her mind. It is as if everything is expanding, growing subtly more complex and nuanced. She feels stronger, brighter, sharper. She gets less tired and less hungry, and she is struggling to remind herself that Loki sort-of vaguely warned her that magic would try to take over her life. She forces herself to stick to normal patterns, but deep down, she has been waiting with something bordering on desperation, for Loki to reappear and teach her how to actually _do_ something.

She attributes the instant knowledge that Loki is in her lab to that impatience, as she turns the key in the door, struggling to keep her groceries from falling everywhere as she does so. She finds herself standing over him, rather than in the kitchen where she had intended to be. The groceries dangle from her wrists, the plastic twisting to cut into her tender skin. For a long moment she can't quite understand the universe. Loki is fast asleep on her battered couch, his lanky form curled into itself. His arms are tucked under his head, and his dark hair is wilder than she has seen it yet. He is wearing the same dark, unknown style she has seen him wear before, but it appears thoroughly rumpled. He has the air of someone who has been traveling for a long time. She wonders if time bends differently around you if you travel through the wormholes she now knows he uses. It has been over a week to her, but who knows how long it has been for him. It looks like it has been longer.

"Loki?" she says softly, her hands itching with the strange and unwanted desire to touch him, "Loki?"

He doesn't stir. He seems to be deeply asleep. It's the most vulnerable Jane has ever seen him, and she suspects that it is not his intention for her to witness such a moment. He's such a nut, really, and Jane nudges the fondness in the thought somewhere far away in her mind. Because Loki is still evil, no matter that he is the reason her understanding of the universe has expanded. He is a monster, even if seeing him like this makes her feel the same warm, fluttery things she felt when she thought the man before her was a human benefactor. There, Jane thinks triumphantly, there is a sore spot!

She lets the bitterness of her memories leak in, tainting the moment that hangs around her now with betrayal and shame. She had believed his lies, fallen prey even when she should have known better. Wasn't that enough right there to keep her from thinking anything warm and fuzzy about him? He was, after all, entirely antithetical to treating her species as equal. That should say something right there.

"Loki?" she begins again, letting that bitterness fuel the disbelief that he is, in fact, _sleeping on her couch_. She figures its something in her tone that actually wakes him.

In the end, she makes him a sandwich, hands him a glass of water, and tells him to go back to sleep. Hours later, Jane is still wondering what on earth took possession of her. He was cute when he was asleep, yes. But seriously? She made him a _sandwich_? Perhaps it didn't need to be dwelt upon. An alien, once-god on a mission to amass an army to retake Asgard on behalf of his estranged adopted family was sleeping on her couch. No big deal.

It was very nearly enough to make Jane laugh. Or perhaps cry with the incredulity of it all. On one hand, she wanted desperately to call Darcy. She wanted to ignore months of silence from the girl she'd come to consider a friend just so she could talk to someone about this. She could even imagine the conversation. _Hey Darcy! Long time no see! I couldn't help myself but to call you. You see, I have Thor's evil adopted brother – yes, the one who tried to take over the world – asleep on my couch! I made him a sandwich and later, when he wakes up, he's going to teach me how to use magic. _If Darcy had any sense, she'd hang up, call a psychiatric hospital, and have Jane put away for a long time. For everyone's safety.

Instead, Jane sat very still, perched on a chair with her legs drawn up and hugged to her chest. She stared vacantly at her laptop. It held no more secrets. At this point, she'd converted everyone else's relevant theories and work into some sort of usable form. Her table, her walls, and her notes were filled with neon coloured sticky notes that proclaimed the solutions and integrations of magic that would be required. She had all the rough work done now. She just needed to integrate it all into her existing Einstein-Rosen bridge theories. It would make sense then. She already knew it would. Every missing piece was there, in the place that exotic dark matter and energy filled. Magic, by any other name, was still magic. A consciousness that wanted to create change in the universe. The ramifications were holding her still just as much as Loki's strange trust in her that had him sleeping in the next room.

She was on the edge of new territory: a brave new world for humankind. It was hugely terrifying. Jane shook her head, running her hands over her face and through her tangled curls. "Grarr," she exclaimed on a silly whim, extending her arms out and twisting her spine in a mockery of a stretch.

"Grar?" a familiar voice echoed drily from the doorway behind her.

Jane smiled a little helplessly. Of course he would choose _that_ moment to walk in. She spun in her chair, only half reminded of the way he had first entered her life, a broken champagne glass and her falling from the hood of a rental car, for instance. She was always awkward and ridiculous.

His expression was guarded, eyes half hooded with a wariness Jane recognized. He was worried she would judge him for sleeping on her couch. The part of her that had been softening towards him all afternoon and evening melted a little more. It was amusing and flattering all at once, the idea that a so-called god cared what she thought of him, whether he realized it or not.

"Grarr," she nodded sociably, continuing her stretch. "Like a big cat, or something. When they stretch," she explained. She knew she sounded like a loon. But really, why not? It was past two in the morning and a Norse god was going to give her magic lessons so she would keep working on the theory and construction plans for a magical bridge that spanned realms. Her life was already insane. Who cared if she went off the deep end?

He shook his head at her slowly, his movements far more reminiscent of a big cat than her own as he prowled toward her table. He slunk into the chair that she had decided would forever be his after the previous week's lecture. "Where did we leave off?" he asked quietly, his dark eyes bright under the artificial lights.

"Magic," she breathed contentedly. "You were about to show me how to actually use it."

He smiled at her then. It was a small smile, but it stilled something in Jane's heart. It was completely honest. And it hit her like a freight train. "I wasn't, actually," he said in what must have been a normal tone, though Jane took a long moment to process it. Something had shifted between them. It must have, because he wasn't looking at her like some kind of dog to train or lesser being to put up with. "There's still more talk, unfortunately."

"I can handle talk," she replied, her brain still working the problem of Loki's smile making her heart react. She hoped she sounded smooth, because to her own ears, she sounded about ready to explode into nervous ramble.

He was smiling at her again. The same small smile, accompanied by a strange warmth in his eyes that she could almost trace into her memories of the so-called Aldric Hemming. He was relaxed on a level he hadn't been since the time he had appeared to her in the desert, a war criminal heading back to his own world. Only, he wasn't pretending now. Which meant… what?

"Or I could show you how to summon the magic 'stuff', as you put it. It isn't really using it, just giving it form, but it might be a bit more exciting."

Jane wondered if it was possible for aliens to body switch with other aliens.

* * *

There was a sort of wrist-twisting thing. The main thing was intent though, the sort that had to fill every part of you. It really did require focus, and Jane was having more than a little trouble with that right now.

Loki was being nice.

It was setting off a million warning bells and alarms in her head. First the smile, and then the offering to teach her something interesting. Then there was the patience he was explaining this all with. The expression he wore was making it worse too. When he was enjoying himself, he looked happy. Which, as it turned out, was an attractive look for him. The whole thing had her stomach doing flips and her heart apparently going on strike against beating with anything approximating a coherent rhythm.

Loki was being nice, and it was making her realize that she was falling for him. In a completely insane, hopeless sort of way, because she knew that in a minute, or an hour, or whatever, he would snap back to being himself: evil and bitter and twisted, with a cruel sense of humour. Her heart would be broken. Wasted. Fodder for the power struggle that existed between them that was only momentarily on hold.

But you don't fall for someone in the space of an hour or two. If that kind of logic was possible, then it would mean that it might just be possible to fall far enough to fall in love in something like, three days, for example. And that was a road Jane would not travel.

Which meant she was in much bigger trouble. Because it would mean that she was falling for evil, bitter, twisted Loki, complete with cruel sense of humour and a laundry list of war crimes. But what kind of person falls for a monster like that?

Jane twisted her wrist, and hoped desperately that the magic would materialize. She could feel it buzzing all around them. It was a presence. A whisper in her ear, a caress on her arm. According to Loki, it liked her. The tone of his voice suggested to her that this was something rare and special and rather unforeseen. It should make it easier.

The magic didn't materialize. She was far too distracted, too wretched, too full of thought and feeling to do even this simple thing. "I think too much!" she exclaimed finally, throwing her hands up into the air and retreating from the space where they had been standing into her chair. She stared miserably at Loki, who wore an expression that was far too sympathetic for her liking.

"Why are you being so nice?" she asked finally, letting her confusion colour her tone in suspicion.

"Nice?" he blinked before seeming to freeze. His posture tightened as she watched his brain analyze his actions, searching for whatever might have given her the unwanted perception. After a moment, he stepped closer, slumping into his chair. He leaned forward, his head resting in his hands so Jane could see nothing of his face. It took her a long moment to realize that he was laughing silently.

"Loki?" she murmured quietly, ever off-balance in this strange new world of hers.

He raised his head from his hands, still laughing. His expression was open now, his eyes dancing with the laughter that was finally given sound. "Oh Jane," he breathed softly, catching her hands in his own and pulling her forward until she was mirroring him, their positions akin to two conspirators sharing a secret plan. "I trust you," he said finally, laughter chasing the tail of the words. "Of all the creatures in the universe, I trust _you_."

Jane swallowed hard. She had lost the thread of this long ago, and now she wasn't sure if she should be thrilled or honoured or insulted by this revelation. "Does this mean you're going to be nice to me all the time, now?" she asked evenly, as she watched him continue to laugh with a strange sense of detachment from it all.

She watched him wipe a tear from his eye, the hilarity of the moment finally subsiding slightly. He sighed quietly before turning his dark eyes onto her. "Possibly," he replied, his voice still carrying a note of humour, "But you probably shouldn't count on it."

"I don't see how I could," Jane said softly, patiently smashing every emotion that rose up inside her chest with finality. She would not fall for this man. Alien. God. Thing. Whatever he was, he was not hers to care for. She should remember it like a sacred mantra.

She swallowed hard and focused. A tiny blob of purple appeared in her palm. She looked up at Loki with shock on her face. It would be so much easier to maintain her purpose if his own eyes didn't light up with childlike joy when she made magic work for her.


	18. Chapter 18

Jane takes to magic like a fish to water. Loki will never tell her this, but it took him far longer than the few hours it takes her to learn to summon magic into a corporeal form. It's little more than a parlour trick, only really valuable for the familiarity it gives the wielder with the feeling and sensation of magic and the concentration necessary to bend it to one's will. But it is a fact, nonetheless, that Jane is able to accomplish the goal in a tenth of the time it took him.

He soothes his own pride with explanations for her ability. First, though Jane is new to magic, the principles that underlie it are not unfamilar. She has devoted her entire life to understanding the universe. Its structures and laws are like old friends to her, and he can see her pretty little brain rushing to match the lessons he gives with what she already knows of the universe. In the few weeks since he has deigned to teach her, her lab has exploded in new work as she updates, revises, and rewrites the laws of physics to fit the new information. She is tenacious and single-minded in a way that even he finds admirable. Even on the verge of exhaustion, she battles on, stretching her body's limit with caffeine and sheer determination. This strength of will is unique to her, he thinks, but it is born of the third explanation he has for her abilities: humans live for such a short time. The more time he spends among them (whether voluntary as with Jane, or forced when he checks in with his unwanted charges), the more he realizes that mortals pack into their lives. They live with a fervor born of knowing that life ends too soon to even begin to fully experience it. Jane just channels hers in the direction of learning.

Whatever the reasoning behind her abilities, Loki is drawn to the vicarious thrill of instructing such a talented, eager student. Her determination seems to give him strength. It's a mental touchstone as he jumps from failing negotiations to fragile diplomatic relationships across star systems eternities away from Earth. If Jane, a tiny, mortal creature can have such willpower, surely he can as well. Her successes, accompanied as they are with brilliant smiles, awestruck gazes, and the flush of triumph, send an empathetic thrill through him. Her successes are his too, after all. He never believed he was even capable of the patience required to teach. It is possible that the experience of growing Jane's abilities is teaching him something of his own as well.

He doesn't have much time to reflect on his own self improvement, however. He simply doesn't seem to have enough time. Negotiations are terribly slow things, and jumping and projecting oneself across galaxies at a time is exhausting on a scale he has never prepared for. Proper diplomatic relations would have him stationed somewhere for years to slowly build things. Instead, he is trying to be everywhere at once. He is at a banquet in Alfheim, a gala on Triblex Twelve, and a foreign affairs consultation with the Chief Commander of the Joined Forces of the Mighty Sifexen Empire in what is perceived by all three parties to be the same evening. He is conducting the diplomatic relations of approximately twenty diplomats on his own, wholly dependent on his own magic to make it happen. Any of the twenty-six empires he is dealing with are likely of the mind that they either his sole focus, or perhaps, one of two or three other parties at most. This is exactly what he wants them to believe, and maintaining the illusion is simply the highest expression of the art form he has spent his entire life perfecting.

He sleeps only every few days, and it is, inevitably, on Jane Foster's couch. He has developed a deep fondness for the battered and beleaguered item. The particular density of the cushions, that faint wet-dog smell, they have become something to ground himself with. The texture of the blanket that Jane draws over him in the small hours of the morning (or sometimes in mid-afternoon) when she believes him to be already asleep is as comforting as the bedding he was familiar with in childhood. He chooses not to question this trust he has in Jane, this comfort he finds in her chosen locale. He doesn't get enough sleep to question the fact that there is a place where he can sleep at all.

According to Jane, it is about a month since he has begun instructing her in magic, and if his visits to her to sleep and to teach are more frequent now than at the beginning of the month, she is tactfully silent on the matter. He is halfway through one of the culinary delights Jane calls a "sub sandwich" when she finally asks him where it is he goes.

"I realize it's not really any of my business," she says in her off-handed way, brushing a wayward curl of her hair back behind an ear as she feigns nonchalance. "I just…" she pauses, her eyes betraying concern as she chews nervously on her lower lip. She asks with her eyes what she won't ask with words. _Where do you go and what do you do that leaves you so exhausted that you sleep on my crummy couch and suffer through my cheap sandwiches as if anything here can hold a candle to what you must be used to?_

Loki can read the question from her with ease. Jane is expressive, but more than that, she is emotionally open. She calls to magic with her heart, and it answers to her moods, swirling in patterns and energies that he has learned how to interpret. Jane Foster cares about the people in her life, and, though she has reservations about it, he has become a person in her life. And an important one. Despite that, his initial reaction is to ignore her question. She is right, after all, it isn't really any of her business. They have a deal: magic lessons for a Bifrost.

Loki swallows the bite of bread and meat. He looks at Jane for a long moment, and suddenly, he wants to tell her about the Gengaxians and their proclivity for racing giant amoeboid creatures at diplomatic events. He wants to tell her about the Triblexian princess, with her violently orange dress, who tripped (with all four of her feet) over the Royal Advisor (a small alien akin to a talking Shih Tzu) and fell into the celebratory fountain of unending intoxication at the gala he attended last week. He longs to share these stories with her, because he knows that she will love them. They will make her smile and laugh and her caramel eyes will widen with awe and longing. He doesn't understand why he wants these things, only that these tiny things about Jane make him smile and laugh and feel a sense of wonder and awe at the universe that he hasn't felt since before his whole world went to hell. He sets down what is left of the sandwich. He is suddenly not at all hungry.

"I'm attempting to begin, re-establish, and solidify diplomatic relations with twenty-six distinct ruling powers in order to mount an army to free Asgard from Muspell's control," he says, as succinctly as possible, "I'm traveling between twenty-three planets, two realms, four galactic armadas, and three asteroids to do so." He pauses, letting his suddenly weary gaze settle on Jane's shocked expression, "Not including Midgard."

"Loki," Jane breathes softly, her eyes wide with the awe and longing he had anticipated at the mention of other worlds. There is something else in her manner though, in the tone of her voice. The care she feels is bleeding through again. Along with sympathy, perhaps.

"I don't need pity," he spits, chafing under that almost motherly tone. "It needs to be done, and it simply can't be done quickly enough. Even I can't be everywhere at once!" He is snarling now. He can feel his eyes flashing with rage at the insanity, the fruitlessness of this mission. He is no hero. The sooner Asgard is restored, the sooner he will face his own judgement.

Loki leaps from the couch, feeling caged and confined by the shabby conditions of the hovel he is in. He deserves palaces and the power that comes with rulership. Instead, he is dashing between lesser rulers, currying favour and parlaying for crumbs as he fills a station far beneath him. At the end of whirlwind tours of half a dozen galaxies, he finds himself on a second-rate planet he couldn't defeat with the company of a woman his not-brother didn't even bother to have a proper dalliance with.

Jane's hand settles onto his wrist, and it says volumes about how he has allowed the space between himself and the mortal to shrink. He can feel the heat of her small palm through the thin fabric of his Asgardian clothing. He finds himself wishing he was wearing his armour, for her touch could not sear him so through the enchanted metal and leather of his bracers.

"I'm not offering pity," she spits back at him. Her voice is firm, and he is again taken aback by her bravery. He meets her gaze, and there is something lurking there, fierce and strong and equal. It is that look, that appears so rarely but so unforgettably, that reminds Loki that Jane is more than just a mere mortal. Her nature is stronger, but he has played a part in this as well. "I'm offering _compassion_," she continues, "You've taught me enough to understand how exhausting that must be. How much energy that must be taking. It's… its unreal! How are you even still standing?"

"God," he mutters, distracted by the look in her eyes and the demand in her voice, "Remember?"

She shakes her head in a stiff, curt movement. "You're so full of it," she hisses, but he can hear the trace of admiration in her voice. He shouldn't care what she thinks, but his ego feels somehow soothed. Twenty-six ruling powers are under the impression that he is only capable of wooing one or two powers at a time (and that they are individually important enough to be worthy of such attention), but Jane Foster knows the full extent of his efforts and is impressed. Such a small thing shouldn't matter.

They stand too close together, Loki thinks absently, his mind struggling to find distraction from his own inner turmoil. He can feel the turbulence in the patterns of magical energy around the two of them. The magic stuff, as Jane still calls it, practically hums with anticipation, swimming between the siren calls of two magic users.

"I'll start showing you how to cast attack magic today," he says finally. Jane attracts too much magic to risk not being able to defend herself.

"Right," she murmurs, the fierce look draining from her eyes as her hand springs almost hesitantly free of his wrist, "Good. Awesome."

It takes her longer than usual to focus, and only the dogged determination to give her some sort of tool to protect herself with keeps him urging her to try her hand at summoning fire or lightning or, in a last ditch attempt, ice.

To Loki's chagrin, it's ice that Jane finally succeeds at summoning. He doesn't fail to be amused.

* * *

"The Protectorate of Gengax is a loose affiliation of three swamp planets," Loki tells her quietly. "They surround that star there," he gestures up at the night sky above them. "I believe you'd call it a Class K. Just slightly cooler than your own sun."

Jane inches her lawn chair closer to the one he is slouched comfortably into. She strains her neck to catch the right angle. "That kinda faint one?" she asks, eyes peering up into the black of night.

"Yes," he agrees, letting his hand fall back down. "They raise a strange, multi-cellular amoeboid creature that grows to about the size of a horse. It moves quickly, but with a truly… fascinating squelching sound. They race them."

"You're kidding." Jane's voice carries a hint of reproach, as if she suspects him of teasing her.

Loki raises his head to direct his gaze towards her. He has spent what would have been Jane's morning dodging the Consulate of Phentoth Five's offer to marry off his three youngest daughters to him as second, third, and fourth wives. The afternoon involved disentangling Embra and Bryn from what might have been a contract deal to produce adult films. He is exhausted, but too annoyed to sleep. For once, he is too tired to tease.

"I'm not," he replies curtly, "They're a vaguely green colour, except at sunset, when they seem to glow red with the reflected light."

Jane shakes her head at him, her brown curls dancing around her in a ballad of chaos, "I won't believe it unless I see it."

"Maybe you will one day," he accedes, letting his eyes wander back up to the stars above, half his head already plotting the most efficient journey between the next series of events and soirees and advisorship meetings.

Jane is silent at this. It is a telling silence though, as if she has something she wants desperately to say. With misgivings, Loki lets his gaze fall back to hers. "You've discovered the math necessary for predicting the stable wormholes, haven't you?" he drawls lazily, knowing that she will either curse him for stealing her thunder or be grateful that he already anticipated her concerns.

"I…" she chokes slightly, "Yeah, I have. I don't… I don't understand how to use them…"

"Yet," he interrupts. "You'll get it in time. You'll need to become more sensitive to the flow of magic first. But you'll get it."

She wears an expression halfway between being perturbed and pleased. She settles back into her seat, mirroring his slouch, though she still watches him instead of the stars. "So… giant racing amoebas," she says skeptically. "There's just all sorts of aliens, then?"

"More than you can imagine," he admits with a sigh. "Sometimes I think, more than I can imagine."

"And what are you, exactly?"

It isn't until she asks the question that Loki realizes that he had been relaxed. He knows this only because a sudden rigidity has sunk into his bones. His jaw has clenched, teeth grinding against themselves. He's suppressed more pain than most mortals feel in entire lifetimes since his true race has been revealed to him, and Jane's question, innocent or not, brings it all back like a tidal wave.

She senses this, though she'd likely have to be blind and stupid not to notice the change in his posture and demeanor. She doesn't back off from the topic though, for Jane is a little in love with knowledge, no mater how dangerous it may be. "So you weren't lying," she murmurs softly, "You really aren't Asgardian, are you?" He won't look at her right now, but he can hear her shift, can imagine her leaning forward, "You said, when you pretending to be Aldric Hemming, that Loki is a frost giant."

He's torn between disappearing, cutting her off, or simply remaining here, pretending to ignore her words even as they cut him like knives. He's an idiot for having ever said anything to her. He hates his true nature, and he hates that she should know of it, especially when he didn't for so long, and her kind has.

"What is a frost giant, exactly?" Jane's voice carrying an electric energy behind it. "I mean," she swallows hard enough for the noise to carry to his ears, "You don't really look human, do you?"

He hates her. It is that simple. Bile seems to rise in his throat, and Loki feels an imminent sense of loss. They've had something… functional… here. He's taught her, Jane has listened. They've become… friends. He's let himself be lulled into something that borders on dependency. Without Jane, he has nowhere to stop, nowhere to rest. There will only be endless eternities of space and guilt and work. He feels as if she has robbed him. He wonders how he could be robbed of something he's never had.

"It's just," Jane's voice cracks slightly, "I always thought aliens would be different from us. I thought they'd be… interesting. And then Thor shows up and is all… normal. I mean, aside from the immortal, super-strength bit, but he _looks _normal. And its just," she's staring at him, and Loki can feel the weight of that gaze. "It's terribly boring, don't you think?"

Which is what finally makes Loki look at Jane once more. His knows his face is etched in confused disbelief. Jane wears a sheepish smile. "You're telling me about all these amazing aliens who actually sound interesting and different. You don't expect me to put together the fact that I'm sitting next to an incredibly amazing alien of an entirely different species with wanting to see a _real_ alien?"

He is right, she is leaning forward. Her elbows rest on her knees, and her chin is nestled into the curve of one hand. She waves the free hand towards him, "Don't get me wrong," she says softly, "You're not going to go wrong looking like _that_. It's just that I know that it's not real. There's a real you somewhere under that. And I've been obsessed with the stars my whole life. You really think I don't want to see a real alien?"

Loki doesn't hate her. He just hates her ignorance.

He sighs heavily, pulling himself into a position that mirrors Jane's own. "This is the real me," he says quietly, noting with a hint of wistful amusement the sudden disappointment in Jane's features. "I spent my entire life, millennia following millennia, believing that I was Asgardian. This is the only appearance I am familiar with." There are vast tracts of his personality that are screaming at him to stop talking, to spin a lie, to up and leave. It isn't in his nature to be open with others. It isn't in his nature to be open at all. Jane Foster doesn't need to know his life story, doesn't need to understand his pain.

He keeps talking. Partly because he has had no one to tell. "Odin found me as a baby," he says quietly. It is the first time he has told the story himself. "He placed the glamour, told the world that I was his actual son. I grew up believing him. Even in the face of what Odin explained were lies and primitive suspicions. I never knew they were true."

Jane is silent. He can see her expression, frozen in that state between lazy, accepting ease and shock. "He…" she swallows, the gears whirring in her pretty mind, "He lied about you _are_?" she squeaks.

She is the first being in the universe to show any understanding or acknowledgement of his situation. She looks horrified, and like she might be just a little bit ill. "Why?" she whispers.

"The frost giants are monsters," he says simply, leaning back so he can avoid her gaze. "Horrible, terrible, ugly monsters."

He misses Jane's look then. The logic doesn't compute, though he's choosing not to face the fact. But Jane has already made her decision: they are all monsters of some sort or another. Appearance has nothing to do with it, and being Asgardian offers no protection at all.


	19. Chapter 19

_This chapter is long. I debated breaking it into two, but decided that would just be silly. _

Jane knows she's in trouble. She understands what she is to Loki, or at least she thinks she does. She's become some sort of refuge for him. For a few hours every two or three days, he crashes into her couch for an hour or two of sleep and a magic lesson. He needs a safe place to rest, and some sense of accomplishment between time spent bashing his haughty head against the wall in diplomatic relationships that take longer than he has to form. So it surprises her when he opens his mouth and actually tells her about himself. It also lulls her into believing that maybe, on some strange level, they are friends.

Then, he inevitably snaps and she is reminded of all the reasons she shouldn't trust him, shouldn't want to comfort him, shouldn't care about him at all. She is a means to an end, a pawn in some galactic-level game he is playing. If he occasionally skips the nap in favour of star gazing and telling her about the strange worlds he visits, it is probably only because he can't sleep. Her life is like that of a mayfly compared to his, and Jane can only conclude that he must think of her as some kind of pet. Pet scientist, she thinks, memories swimming in her mind. It really isn't fair then, that he is the centre of her universe.

At this point, Loki is her only meaningful contact with other intelligent beings. Aside from small talk with grocery store clerks or the waitress at the diner, she's had little contact with other people. Erik has been chasing some new idea, and while he calls her once a week to touch base, he's not really a mentor to Jane anymore. Not when she's itching to correct half his theorems and assumptions. Loki has seriously messed up her understanding of the universe. It's the correct understanding (she doesn't doubt this at all), but its so many trillions of miles from typical scientific thought, that she might as well propose the existence of fairies. (Who are real – only they're from Alfheim, thus making them aliens).

If Jane used to live on the fringe of society and science, she has officially gone off the far edge. It is highly possible that the only people on the entire planet who wouldn't think she had gone entirely insane are those involved with SHIELD – and Jane has about zero desire to get involved in any of that again. Which leaves her up at odd hours, her senses reaching out into the space around her, feeling for the burst of magic that signals Loki's arrival in her lab. Perhaps she is a pet, waiting like a puppy for its master to come home.

It's an idea that gets under her skin and sends her driving out into the emptiness of the desert, where she struggles to tell herself she is capable all on her own. She pulls the magic in the air close to her and focuses upon it. She has trouble with illusions. They aren't really part of her nature. She can't really handle lightning, always finding herself reminded of Thor and how this all began. It cuts through her concentration like a knife. She finds herself adept at practical magic: lights and movement and structure.

Hot and cold work for her as well. She isn't too fond of fire. It's a bit flashy for her, all bright and blinding and visible for miles. Ice though, she feels an awkward fondness for. She won't admit it's at least partly because she knows it's what characterizes Loki best. Her fondness for him is like a poison that has penetrated her every defense, permeating her thoughts and motivations whether she wants it to or not.

She summons the cold to her: dagger-like icicles she can throw, cold bursts she can direct at will, explosions of snowflakes that can blind and obscure. She sends a burst of cold wind toward a dried out bush that trembles and shivers under the weak force. She isn't powerful, but it would still be enough to confuse a would-be attacker. Though Jane still can't understand who would attack her or why. Loki insists on this, however, and he's the one in control…

Jane's mouth goes dry and her raised hands fall. It's the truth she's run out into the desert to escape. Loki is the one in control. She is simply a willing follower, hanging on his every word and scurrying to meet his unvoiced demands. The knowledge leaves her feeling hollow and shaken. How long has it been since she even bothered to feel guilty about this arrangement? When exactly did she sweep the fact that he tried to conquer her world under the rug? When did she decide it didn't matter that he had killed hundreds in cold blood? When did it stop mattering that he had hurt Erik? If it came to it, and she ever had to pick sides, would she even find it possible to take a side that didn't have Loki on it?

Jane crumbles to the dusty ground, hugging her arms around her curled legs and pulling them into her chest. There is a sky full of stars above her, and she now knows for sure that it is a universe teeming with life. She wants to see it. She'd give anything to see it. She probably has. Her whole life has been about sacrificing the things everyone else takes for granted in favour of chasing a dream. She has no family, no loved ones, no real friends. She has a lab and a beat up trailer she almost never sets foot into anymore rather than a house. She has no pets. She's dodged responsibility for anything except her research. She's given up any hope of entering the scientific community in favour of learning magic. She can barely even talk to other people anymore, knowing how much more is out there waiting. She hasn't done any of these things consciously. She never meant to isolate herself like this. She is deeply unhappy, but she knows, deep down, than she'd probably be just as unhappy if she'd led any other life.

The only times she doesn't feel completely lost and alone are…

"Jane?" the voice is quiet. She feels a little foolish for being out here, in the middle of nowhere. She never dreamed he would look for her. She'd figured he would simply curl up on the couch and sleep until she returned. It's what he has done when she hasn't been home previously, after all.

"Yes?" she whispers softly without turning her head to face him. She imagines she must look ridiculous.

"Are you alright?"

She wants to tell him she is fine. She also wants to tell him that she is miles from alright. She's fighting a war between wanting to reassure him (knowing she shouldn't care) and wanting to confide in him (which is foolish beyond belief). She says nothing at all.

She listens to him sigh somewhere behind her. His cloak swishes across the sand as he steps closer. The leather and metal of his armour creaks in a comforting way. Jane wishes she didn't know these sounds with such intimacy. It isn't at all fair that he should dominate her life this way, when she means so little to him.

He steps into her line of vision, and Jane is gratefully that he is, at least, not wearing the ridiculous battle helmet that goes with the armour. She already feels tiny and weak and useless, facing down the stuff of legend is a bit beyond what her nerves can handle right now.

He pauses, his gaze falling upon her from above. She hates that she likes how he towers over her. She feels him weighing her emotions. He has a way of somehow reading and affecting the magic stuff that she can dimly sense all around them. It becomes more excited when he is near, more insistent about its existence. His gaze is focused more on reading the patterns he says exist within it than on her actual form. She thinks he must be able to read her emotions from the magic in a way most people read body language.

He seems to sigh again, coming to some sort of conclusion. She watches him shuffle closer and drop to a knee in front of her. His eyes look almost black in the darkness that surrounds them. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words come out. There is a weariness in his expression. She imagines it must have been another difficult day.

He moves slowly, motions tentative though purposeful. Jane watches him with vague detachment right up until she realizes that he has actually lifted his arms around her and pulled her closer to him. The detachment leaves her with a sudden gasp as she finds herself being hugged by Loki. She's still curled around herself, but her face is now tucked squarely into his chest. Wide eyes stare blankly at the green chest piece of his armour without comprehension. For a long moment, her entire body is seized with tension. Her shoulders ache with it.

And then she suddenly gets it. She's lonely. Possibly the loneliest girl in the world. And he's lonely. Possibly the loneliest man in the universe. If anyone is capable of understanding what she feels right now, it is him.

It's enough to break her. The tension dissolves from her body and she rests her forehead against his armour. It's cool on her forehead, and that fact is somehow soothing. She isn't going to cry. She doesn't need to. It isn't sadness she feels, but emptiness. She doesn't need someone to make it better. She just needs someone to accept her and make her feel like its alright. You don't need to regret your choices or your nature. You don't need to trade back your sacrifices in favour of sunshine and a loving family. You are allowed to be lonely and not regret the actions that led you there. There's strength in it, really, if you look hard enough for it.

He says it all without saying it. The awkwardness of his embrace as they huddle in the desert night is enough. Jane can put the pieces together and understand the message. She knew choosing this path would make her more like him before she made the choice, after all.

* * *

The truth about Jane's work is that it is very nearly complete. The theoretical underpinnings are done. The technical drawings are complete. The calculations have worked themselves out quite nicely. The good copy of all the work sits tidily in a folder in the bottom drawer of her desk. Jane is, for all intents and purposes, ready to attempt to build a Bifrost.

She doesn't tell Loki this though. She isn't entirely certain what holds her tongue. By all rights, she should tell him that she is ready. instead, she lets him do most of the talking. She listens, asks questions, learns every little thing he offers with intensity. When he is gone, she fills her time by practicing magic and working on the calculations for wormholes. She's got the theory on that complete too. She's told him about that breakthrough. Well, he guessed it. Which she can only interpret to mean that he must know she's ready for practical work on working the bridge, but isn't saying anything either.

It's possible that she isn't strong enough with magic yet. It's a fact that he hasn't gotten to a point with the diplomacy where he needs a bridge yet. It's a fear of Jane's that starting work on such an energy-intensive project would attract attention that Loki doesn't want. The combination is what she figures holds them in stasis.

Stasis is dangerous though, because it gives her too much time to think about the situation. She's not sleeping properly. She's not even eating properly. Jane feels like she's floating free of her own life, living in some sort of bubble away from things and waiting for it to pop. Things cannot continue as they are, but she isn't sure she understands what will determine when they move forward.

It has been a little over two months since she began taking lessons from Loki, and this is something like their twenty-eighth session (not that she's keeping count or mental notes or anything). He is explaining magic-based communication, and the fact that it can resemble telepathy is simultaneously fascinating and fantastical.

"So you could talk to me without actually talking to me?" she huffs with skepticism that is getting increasingly difficult to maintain as she learns ever more about magic.

"Yes," he replies, a devious smirk already playing on his lips, "But you don't believe me."

"I'll believe it when I see it," she tells him, folding her arms over her chest, "Or hear it, as the case may be."

He smiles at her, stormy eyes glittering with amusement. _Believe it_, his voice whispers in her mind, and Jane feels her jaw drop on its own accord.

"How?" she demands with wide eyes.

_Practice_, he mocks in her mind.

* * *

A few sessions later, Loki is elaborating on the ideas of communication. One can receive magical communication at its most basic whether one has access to magic themselves or not. More complex communication requires that both the sender and receiver have a working knowledge and use of magic. Jane can almost manage a short conversation at close range at this point, though it leaves her exhausted beyond belief. She isn't certain she understands how one could use this method to communicate across any distance of space without completely draining themselves, but she understands now that it's a variation of this that allows Loki to project himself from worlds away. Once again, she's dimly awestruck by just how much power Loki must have access to. The thought is rapidly overtaken by a new one, however, as he continues to elaborate on the forms the communications can take.

"Wait," she says quietly, cutting him off mid-sentence. Neither is certain when it became safe for Jane to interrupt without setting Loki into a rage, but its an unspoken agreement between the two to accept the fact and move on. "Are you saying that you can share images telepathically?"

He gives her a long-suffering look. "It's not telepathy," he corrects with only a middling level of annoyance, "But yes. Again, it's the basis for the projection."

Jane looks at him for a long moment, wondering for the millionth time how someone so smart could be so obtuse. "So you've had the ability to show me what all these crazy aliens and worlds look like all this time and never bothered to mention it? Even after I brought up the camera idea?"

He's staring at her like she's an annoying puppy again, demanding far more of him than she has any right to, but he's been in a good mood the last several days. Things are apparently moving forward with the Gengaxians and the Lesatian Armada (finally), and she knows he might just finally cave to her demands. "It's not a static image," he explains, "And it takes energy. Almost as much as projecting."

"So you won't show me because you don't want to get tired?" she pouts, "Lame."

He glares at her for a long moment. She's already accepted that he won't. He's already turned down her requests to take a camera and take pictures on three separate occasions. For whatever reason, he seems to be rather determined for her to not see aliens, even though he's described more than a few of them.

"Fine," he says finally, his tone clipped and harsh. He doesn't want to, but for whatever reason, he's decided that the cost is less than finally giving in to her demands. He points at the floor at their feet, "Sit."

Jane raises an eyebrow, but does as she's told. She's come to trust him, and when she's finally going to get something she wants, she's not going to push it. She sits cross-legged on the floor and stares up at him expectantly. With an irritated sigh, he's folded his long legs to mirror her. Even a month ago, Jane doesn't think she would have imagined Loki sitting cross-legged on the floor, but she's seen him kneeling in desert dust just to offer her a little comfort since then. She knows he's capable of compromise, he just doesn't like it.

"Here," he prompts, holding out his hands to her. Jane searches his eyes for a moment before placing her own stubby paws into his elegant grasp. "It's easier when there's physical contact," he explains, his voice already holding the distracted distance indicative of his switching focus from her to the magic around them. "What do you want to see?" he asks her absently.

Jane is caught off-guard for a moment. She wants to see everything. Every place, every species, every world and realm and space ship. She wonders if she's supposed to say something obvious like Asgard, or if she's expected to stay in less emotionally-damaging territory.

"The Gengaxian giant amoeba races," she says quietly, knowing that they amuse him. She's gratified by the faint smile that slips across his lips.

"Close your eyes," he says softly, and for a moment, Jane wishes that there were more situations where he could use that particular tone on her. Because for a moment, it sounds like he's legitimately fond of her.

Jane closes her eyes. The black of nothing is very suddenly and vibrantly replaced.

She can see with the kind of realism that accompanies actually being in a place. It is no static photograph that she looks at, but a real-life view of a hazy, yellow-green swamp. At the corners of her eyes, she can see a crowd of creatures that look only very vaguely humanoid. Toad-like green skin hangs loosely from squat forms with large heads that seem to sit directly on top of the trunk of their bodies. They have small upper appendages that seem to crease into the folds of their skin. They are balanced on large, muscular legs that fold under them, again reminding Jane of a toad. She imagines they must have webbed feet, for though the viewing area seems to be a raised platform, they are surrounded almost completely by swamp water.

Directly before her, there is a long, wide patch of clear water. It reflects a yellowish-sky, making it look a little sickly to her biased eyes. At one end is a line of giant blobs, tinged faintly green, though they may also be slightly translucent. She watches as they wobble and jitter in place, and is actually reminded of eager horses, straining and frothing at the gate. Suddenly, the amoebas jolt into motion, portions of their bodies extending and then scooping through the water. There's no sound to accompany the image, but she imagines the accompanying squelch that Loki had once claimed they made.

Jane is dizzy with the joy of it. It is entirely weird and completely wonderful. She opens her eyes finds her gaze blurred with tears of wonder and delight. Loki stares back at her, his expression completely serious. His green-blue eyes are measuring her reaction, and Jane is suddenly worried that he might misinterpret the tears.

"That was wonderful!" she exclaims, seizing a hand out of his and rubbing furiously at her eyes. She can tell he's misinterpreting from the careful lack of change in his eyes. "No," she whines, "You're getting it wrong!" She smacks his freed hand with her own, "I'm crying because I'm happy!"

He looks at her with that same cool, collected gaze. "I never said you weren't," he says carefully.

Jane shakes her head abruptly. "It's everything I've ever wanted!" she explains, suddenly desperate for him to understand. She grabs the hand she let go of once more so that she has both of his hands trapped in her own. "All my life," she says, her voice quieter, but more ragged. She doesn't finish the sentence, instead imploring him with her eyes to understand that she's grateful for what he's shown her, that she loves what she's seen.

The tightness around his eyes and mouth soften slightly, though his gaze becomes only more intense. "I could," he begins, the words catching on his tongue in a way Jane has never heard before, "I could show you Asgard." His words are rapid, but heavy with emotion. It's a jealously guarded secret that. He won't speak of Asgard. Until this moment, she's believed its because he hates the entire realm for keeping the secret of who he really is. She realizes now its because he loves it completely even despite the heartbreak.

Jane bites her lower lip, holding the eye contact with Loki for a long moment, just to be sure that he means it. She wants to say "yes" or "please." Instead, she nods mutely, the eagerness underlying the movement rather than tone.

"Close your eyes, Jane," he says softly again, and this time Jane understands that the tone is not a lie. Loki really is fond of her. He feels something, trusts her honestly. He wouldn't show her this otherwise.

Jane lets her eyelids flutter closed. There is barely a moment before the image unfolds. She feels as if she must be flying, for everything is at a bird's eye view. Dimly, she remembers that in myth, Loki can change his shape. She wonders now if its true.

There are no words to properly describe Asgard. It possesses a beauty unparalleled by anything Jane has ever seen on Earth. The structures have the majesty of ancient ruins without any of the wear. The entire world seems to glow from within; it seems more real than the reality Jane knows. When she has seen so much that she feels her heart and her head might burst from the wonder of it all, she opens her eyes.

If her vision was blurred by tears before, Jane can hardly see at all now. The tears stream honestly from her and, though its only the second time he has ever done so, she welcomes it when Loki pulls her closer to him and wraps his arms around her. She sobs into his chest, grateful that he's not wearing armour now. She can't imagine his reaction if she were to get tears on that.

Without his hands to cling to, Jane finds her fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. She's always wondered at what texture Asgardian clothes must have, and now she knows. It matches the quality of the vision she has just seen. She can't understand how he can bear to be here when he's grown up with all that beauty and wonder and majesty. She can't imagine the loss that would come with realizing that world didn't really belong to you, if you had ever believed otherwise. It was too much.

"I'm so sorry," she chokes out finally, the sobs subsiding. She still can't summon the energy to move or the strength to look him in the face. She's just sobbed her heart out on the icy, aloof god of lies who failed to conquer her planet. There's nothing she can say or do to make that okay.

His doesn't say anything. She feels his arms shift around her and pull her closer. She's no longer cross-legged; she's puddled into his lap and he's holding onto her like a man drowning. His face is buried in her hair and its with a start that Jane realizes that his breathing is as ragged as her own.

His arms are warm and strong around her, and there's a hole in her heart that has nothing to do with Asgard or the pain she feels for him. It has everything to do with the fact that she has longed for his arms around her since the night he held her so awkwardly in the desert. She'd stood up stronger from that embrace, but walked away knowing that while she could survive alone, she wanted to be not-quite-alone. She wanted that embrace. She just knew she couldn't have it. It isn't making any sense then, that she's here, in his arms, right now.

It's a painfully slow journey, barred by guilt and insecurity and fear, but Jane does finally raise her head. The movement is enough to jolt Loki from whatever has possessed him to clutch at her so. A momentary weakness born of confronting what he has lost claim to, perhaps.

There is a long moment where they stare at each other with looks of strangled surprise. Loki's arms are still wrapped around her, holding her firmly against his body as she and her curled legs balance in his lap. Jane's hands are still fisted into the fabric of his shirt. In a different world, maybe one where the power differential between them is not so great, Jane could imagine this being the perfect moment to kiss him.

She doesn't know it, but her eyes betray her as they always do. Her pupils dilate and her breath hitches in her throat. Her body temperature has risen by at least half a degree, and she's subconsciously angling her body so that there is a maximum amount of her body touching his. She isn't aware of any of these things.

What she is aware of, is Loki loosening his hold on her, slowly extricating an arm. Jane lets her gaze fall. She's a fool with no sense of self-preservation. If she'd ever had any sense, she would have never let any of this happen. She should have known that she would fall. That her heart, with its limited opportunities to love, would reach out and pull him in. He's so desperately, terribly alone. He's brilliant and broken. He's a complete monster. He's everything she loves and hates about herself, only magnified a hundred times over. And he is, figuratively, a god. She's never acknowledged it, but the fear that her love might be tainted with just a hint of worship is there. She's just a pet though, not worthy of...

A free arm means a free hand, and Loki's has crept in closer. Elegant fingers slip under Jane's chin and force her to look at him. She is certain that she has looked into his eyes and named their colour before. She thinks it might have been something like "magic."

She thinks he kisses her. She thinks this because she has no idea what is happening and no comprehension of how a kiss could begin between them. What she does know is that she wishes the moment could last forever.

Her eyes are closed, and she feels like her heart is a captive bird fluttering in her chest. Every neuron in her body is focused on what is happening _right now. _The kiss is soft, barely more than a brushing of lips against lips, but time seems to stop around it. He pulls back, but such a small distance that Jane can still feel the warmth of his breath. Her eyes open reflexively, and she realizes that if she leans her head just a little, her nose will rub against his. He isn't quite himself, she thinks distantly. He's hesitating, and she doesn't think she's ever seen him hesitate over action before.

Then his lips are back on hers, claiming them with the assurance of ownership. She trembles slightly, because she knows this is something she should fight. There is nothing equal about this. His kiss is ripping her heart to shreds because she knows she loves him, and that he might just be entirely incapable of the emotion. He's claiming her anyway, demanding that she be his as completely in this as she is in everything else. _His_ student, _his _safe haven, _his _pet_, his _Jane.

_His lover_, Jane thinks. Or perhaps she's messed up somehow, because now he's trailing his lips down her jawline. "Yes," he hisses into her ear, and Jane knows she's spoken the words into his mind. _My Jane_, he tells her, imprinting the words into her mind more firmly than he could ever say them aloud, and leaving his mouth free.

For her part, Jane clings even tighter, her own lips suddenly spurred into action. It's not liberating or freeing or even remotely close to what she knows she really wants in the darkest corners of her heart, but she's not Loki's equal, and it is entirely possible that she's willing to accept this as being close enough.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: I'm having a little war with myself over ratings and just how explicit I want to be with the ah, more "interesting" scenes I have planned for this story. So far, this story has been T (though I initially rated it M, then changed my mind because the "M" bits hadn't happened). This chapter does have adult themes, but I'm going to be focusing mostly on the emotional/mental repercussions of it. Because of the nature of the relationship between Jane and Loki, I will be increasing the rating back to "M" shortly after posting this chapter. Unequal power dynamics don't make for healthy relationships, and damaging relationships tend to lead to damaging behaviours, thus requiring the M-rating, based on the rating guidelines. I'd rather be safe than sorry when it comes to ratings. That said, the most intimate scenes still won't be as risqué as some I have seen… if you personally think I should "up the ante" on the more intimate scenes, please tell me so._

* * *

Loki's mouth is doing something utterly wicked to the sensitive skin of her neck and its making it difficult for Jane to process what is happening. One moment, he is sucking at her pulse point. The next, he is nipping the delicate area beneath her ear with just enough pressure to walk the fine line between pain and pleasure. The hand that had tilted her face towards him is now tangled in her hair, tugging it back with just enough force to communicate the exact angle he wants her head to take. It's too much and not enough all at once.

Dimly, Jane knows that this is wrong. She should stop this. Her clenched hands open reflexively, freeing his shirt of her death grip upon the rich fabric. Jane knows that she should press her open palms against his chest and force some space between them. Her body is warm and her blood is pounding through her head, even as a chill runs down her spine. His breath whispers coolly across the shell of her ear and purpose is momentarily scattered. Jane's hands scatter across his chest, feeling the smooth planes of masculine muscle beneath the fabric. There's a delirious second where he nips at her ear and she positively jumps in his lap. It's a mistake, because she can feel the deep chuckle rise in his chest in response. His arm pulls her body closer, and Jane knows that her opportunities to put a stop to this are rapidly running out.

She pulls her head back with a slowness born of regret, and forces herself to look him in the eye. Her vision seems to have determined that nothing else in the universe is as important as he is, and the slowness in her movements seems to also exist in her thoughts. Staring into his eyes, which flash with desire and power and intoxicating promise, Jane understands that she doesn't want this to stop. She also knows it shouldn't continue. There are a thousand reasons why this a terrible idea. She's already given him far too much of herself. He already suffers from an entitlement complex that eclipses planets. A good person, a strong person with any sense of right and wrong, a person who loved him properly enough to want him to learn and improve… they would stop this here and now. This knowledge filters through the haze in Jane's head and for a sickening moment, she knows what she _really must not do_, no matter that she has never wanted anything quite so badly as this in her whole life.

Loki sees this in her eyes. She can tell by the slight widening of his own, the twitch of his smirk into something darker, and the way he leans his head so that their foreheads touch. He fixes his stare directly into her soul and Jane knows that the shiver that runs down her spine now is born of honest fear, not arousal. "My Jane," he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotions so violent that Jane trembles, "Are you thinking now is the time to prove yourself to be good? To be shining and virtuous?"

His tone drips disdain like venom, and the hand tangled in her hair gives her curls a light tug before slithering down to her shoulder. She should interpret this as something akin to threat, but instead she can only focus on the miniscule loosening of his hold upon her. His words and his manner might suggest otherwise, but there is, somewhere in this disaster, a reluctant acceptance that Jane does have a choice in this. A choice to turn him down, to set them upon a path that will treat her more fairly. It's a fractious glimmer of hope, and for a moment, Jane thinks that this path of _good_ and _right_ might be an actual option. All she needs to do is make that choice.

Jane doesn't need her doctorate degree to realize that she is hesitating. The hand that wraps around her shoulder tightens imperceptibly. Loki's hold on her body shifts to settle more comfortably on her hip, and the movement of his hand across her lower back is like the passing of silk. Jane trembles again, the moment too fragile to hold.

"Jane," he prompts her, his tongue spiking over her name sinfully, "Do you really believe that you still have a choice to make?"

She focuses on his eyes, because his words are in direct contrast to the choice she does feel like she still possesses. She can feel the option to end this in the way he holds her body, and she can't understand why his words would so contradict his actions… except that he licks his lips and the movement steals her concentration. She recovers almost instantly, but he misses nothing when it comes to reading her.

"My Jane," he mocks her, "Haven't you already decided to be a monster?"

His words are devastating precisely because she can't deny it. Everything she has done since Loki first lied his way into her life has brought her closer to this, and she has taken each and every step willingly. To stop now, to deny this, would be a lie. He's right to mock her so. If she was anything close to a good person, she wouldn't have come this far with him in the first place. To stop this now would just be denying them what they both want. And she desperately wants this.

The truth is that she _does _have a choice: a choice between doing what she's been taught to believe is "right" and doing what she wants to do. She's already made dozens of choices, and each of them has been determined by what she wants. Jane Foster is a woman who throws society's norms out the back window. Why should this choice be any different?

It's a terrifyingly freeing thought. It opens whatever doors are still shut in her mind and Jane thinks she can taste freedom and eternity on her tongue.

Loki shifts slightly beneath her. The movement brings Jane back into the moment and she stares at Loki's dark eyes with absolute clarity. She _likes_ the power he has over her. Truthfully, she likes everything about him. The way his kiss tastes like wintergreen and magic and danger in particular.

It's with purposefulness that Jane throws away the last trappings of societal expectation. She presses her forehead against Loki's and closes her eyes for a brief moment. She breathes deeply, absorbing the smell of leather and stardust and magic that surrounds him. He's a god, and its alright for her to want him like this. It isn't perfect, but if this is what is being offered, she would only be a fool to turn it down. Perhaps if she hadn't come so far already, there might be more reason to fight this. But there isn't, and Jane knows what she wants.

Her eyes open and Jane feels a smirk creep across her own lips in answer to his. "Yes," she says softly, the darkness in her voice sending electric thrills through her, "I did decide that, didn't I?" She licks her lips and closes the distance between them.

This kiss is dark and deep. Loki is wasting no time taking advantage of her acceptance of this. One of his hands is back in her hair, the base of his palm pressing against the back of her neck. He is all passion and suppressed violence, and Jane lets herself drown in it freely.

At some point, he eases her from his lap. There's no break in the focused attention his mouth is paying to hers. They seem to be locked together at the lips. Every attempt to break for air is thwarted by their eyes catching each other. There is a dangerous hunger in both of them, and there's no stopping this now. His body follows hers as if drawn by magnetic force. He has her pinned to the floor now, one hand between her head and the battered flooring, the other arm bracing himself.

Jane feels like she is liquid heat. In contrast, Loki still feels gloriously cool. Dimly, she remembers that he isn't what he seems, and that coolness might just be part of his physiology. There's a tiny part of her that is perversely thrilled that she's in the arms of an alien. She figures she's allowed to embrace this darkness now; Loki has already made it clear that they are both monsters.

The floor is hard though, and Jane can feel the pressure of it on her spine. This might be happening, but it really doesn't have to happen on the floor of her lab. Not when he is a god with immense magical power at his disposal.

Jane wriggles her body slightly, pulling her mouth from his with firmness. The hand protecting her head tightens its grasp in her hair, and Jane realizes with a gasp that the sensation isn't entirely unwelcome. It doesn't sway her intentions though.

"We're on the floor," she points out, her voice a breathless sigh. He pauses, finally meeting her gaze with something other than lust. His eyes seem to glitter with amusement and a distinct lack of concern. "Do we need to be on the floor?" she asks, her words trailing into a quiet moan as he shifts the leg pressed close between her thighs. For a brief moment, she wonders why she cares where they are.

"Would you prefer somewhere more comfortable?" he murmurs darkly into her ear, wicked tongue trailing across sensitive nerve endings before he pulls away. His eyes are full of heated promise and for a moment Jane can't quite remember how to breath.

"Yes," she whispers, the sound little more than a ghostly exhalation. She knows he's moved them because whatever she is lying on is suddenly much softer and more comfortable. She doesn't know where they are exactly, and honestly, she doesn't care. It's a stupid thing to do, but she trusts him. She can't think why else his hands could be under her ragged sweater and the tight tank top she is wearing beneath it.

His hands run up her bare skin, his long fingers wrapping around her sides possessively. Fingertips reach the lace embroidery of her bra, and the amusement that dances in his eyes is enough to remind her of how long it has been since someone has even expressed an interest in getting this far with her. She is simultaneously flushed with the pleasure of being desired and left bereft of confidence. She borders on anti-social, is clumsy in nearly everything but mathematics, and is usually the one who gets left behind. What exactly is it that she has to offer?

As if he can read her mind, Loki's eyes soften towards her. With the hold her has on her body, he pulls her up, hands freeing her from the chunky sweater and well-worn tank top. His gaze slips down her body, and Jane fights the urge to attempt to cover herself. When his eyes meet hers again, they burn with desire. Hope is a lump in Jane's throat that she can't quite swallow. She wants to be enough. She wants to have something worth offering. Her experiences just tell her otherwise. Wouldn't men stay if she was…

Loki cuts off her thoughts with action. His mouth is on her breast, sucking and nibbling at her through the slip of fabric that still protects her. It's unreal, a god demanding access to her body. Thought escapes her, and Jane accepts that maybe, if she really wants this so desperately, she should just go with it.

* * *

He takes his time with her, unclothing her slowly now. His eyes are bright and dark, all at once. He removes cloth slowly, as if he's unwrapping a delicate gift, and then his eyes drink her in with a hunger that Jane has never seen before in a partner's eyes. She struggles with the need to observe and analyze his actions and reactions. He keeps her in the moment with well-timed bites and kisses and the slow drag of hands across planes of skin that haven't felt a lover's touch in far too long. He's exploring all the ways to short-circuit her mind, and Jane is helplessly, happily, swept along.

Time seems to have lost its hold on her completely. The entire universe has collapsed into this time and place, and when Loki stares at her with wicked eyes and licks his lips with exaggerated slowness, she shivers before she screams. It's been too long, and he is too good. If she falls over the edge half a dozen times, she isn't surprised. What shocks her is how content he is to settle between her thighs, seemingly happy to just bring her wave after wave of pleasure with touch and tongue.

When she raises her head, dizzy with too much pleasure, she finds him smirking at her. He can't know how endearing he looks in the moment, his dark hair ruffled by her frantic hands, his eyes content in his superiority and skill. He's delicious, and he's (at least for the moment) hers. It's a terrifyingly wonderful thought, and Jane lets her head fall back to the pillow that made its way under her head at some point. She's too overwhelmed by desire, and he's still wearing too much clothes, and she can't understand how she can still want more after all he has given.

"God," she breathes, still finding the whole situation incomprehensible.

"You finally accept it," he hums, his tone suggesting that he knows it's not what she meant, but will still hold it against her until the end of time, if he must. He's above her now, his gloating face hovering just inches above her own.

Jane's never considered herself all that passionate a person. She's spent her whole life being ruled by reason and numbers, and she's never let herself become completely lost in the act of making love. A part of her is always detached, working on something else. Maybe that is part of why she's never been able to keep a man in her bed for very long. Then again, maybe she's just never had a man who could hold all her attention. Mostly though, Jane knows it is because she has always had to protect herself. There's no one else who could look after her interests. She's been alone for so very long.

Maybe there's a critical threshold, or maybe Loki really is a god, and she's just fooling herself thinking she can even try to protect herself from him. Whatever the case, Jane's at a precipice and is suddenly willing to fling herself into the unknown. "Fine," she whispers, her hands dragging across the Asgardian cloth he still wears. She tugs at it, pulling it closer towards her until he relents and lets her pull it over his head. His chest is as pale as the rest of his skin. He's all lean muscle and perfection, and Jane finally understands the primitive desire to lick and bite and claw in some vain attempt to claim this territory. There are scars on him, which she makes a mental note to explore later, and they just serve to reinforce how strange and out of her experience he is. He makes her want to fall apart at the seams, to leave herself completely at his mercy. She meets his eyes, which are regarding her with a heat she doesn't expect from someone as cold as he can be. "Fine," she whispers again, pulling him down into a kiss and marveling at the fact that he's letting her have even that much power over him. "You're a god," she murmurs across his lips. She feels them curl into a triumphant smirk, and then she just feels.


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: This one is just a little dark. I know many of you are concerned about the state of Loki and Jane's relationship… hopefully you can see between the things that are wrong to see that both sides actually do care. They're just a bit tragically flawed right now. _

He supposes he should take it as a compliment that she sleeps now, only moments since he has parted from her. It helps that he knows that she has been sleeping almost as little as he does. He still feels a sense of disquiet as he regards her. If she were awake, he could say something or do something to deflect this awkward, quiet moment of _after_, but she isn't. Instead, he's been left relatively alone, forced to confront the fact that he has bedded a mere mortal who is somewhat more than just a mere mortal. She is, after all, the object of his adopted brother's affections, the one Midgardian scientist capable of understanding how a Bifrost is built, and his student of magic. It's a potent combination. He can't exactly abandon her or pretend that he doesn't care a lick about her welfare. He does, just not necessarily for the reasons she will want him to when she wakes.

There's a small part of him that disagrees. It's a traitorous voice that points out that she's actually quite lovely, with her luxurious hair spread out across the pillow, her pale skin illuminated by the moonlight that filters in through the cheap motel curtains. She's also capable, intelligent, and a quick learner. She is warm, and desperate to love. There is much within Jane Foster that deserves a second glance and perhaps more even than just that. Its entirely possible that if any mortal were ever capable of being his equal, it might just be her. It's a dangerous idea that he doesn't have time for.

It's a dangerous idea that makes his stomach turn slightly, for if its true, he may have done deeper damage to his own happiness than anyone else's. He pulls his gaze away from the sleeping woman and curses his own desires. He's never regretted such a thing before and it feels foolish to begin now, but he can't quite shake the sense that he has done wrong.

The room they are in has seen better days and Loki is feeling less than charitable right now. The woman requested something more comfortable and he had reached out for the nearest, closest thing that matched her description. There's a spell on the room that will keep the motel owner from handing out the key, which promises them continued privacy (though who comes to a poor, dusty town in New Mexico to stay in a rundown motel is beyond him). It still feels off. The strange security he feels in Jane's lab is absent here, and he knows he will not sleep without it. The battered furniture here has not earned his affection as Jane's couch has.

He risks a glance at the woman, who sleeps soundly on. Her lips are just slightly parted, swollen and red still from his kiss. She looks properly ravished, and if his eyes become somewhat darker looking at her, he has never been described as easily satiated. He knows this won't be the last time. He's just not certain yet how he will justify the continuance of this to himself. He's not comfortable with things like feelings, and he's dimly aware that he does, technically, have a wife. He also has more important things to do than debate the ethics of his actions.

For a moment, he is tempted to leave Jane here. The bed is more comfortable, and the motel is only a short walk from her lab. He shakes his head; it won't do. Jane is a creature of habit and waking anywhere else will only serve to disorient her and, quite possibly, leave her upset with him. He doesn't want that, not now that he's determined the shape of her body when it isn't obscured by the horrendous clothing she wears.

It's quick work to magic her into the tiny bed in the trailer she sleeps in. Its beyond him why she would choose such surroundings for herself, particularly when she has the funds available to improve her situation (conjured funds though they may be). Her clothes appear, folded, upon the top of what passes for her dresser. He's already armed for yet more tedious diplomacy.

It still won't do. Jane's naked form lies curled on top of the covers of her bed. She'll get cold in the night. It pains him to do it, but he leans down over the bed, despairing at the lack of space. With infinite gentleness, he eases Jane up, tugging the covers back beneath her. There is a long moment, when he has let her head back down to the pillow and is inching the fabric from beneath her legs, in which he realizes how foolish the endeavor is. If she were to wake, he would have nothing to fall back on. He was a god, he wasn't designed to suffer the indignities of tucking a tiny human into bed, not even after having his way with her. Perhaps especially not after having his way with her. There were, after all, at least a dozen Asgardian women who had never received nearly as much tenderness as that.

Loki shakes his head, again unwilling to consider the ramifications of his actions. His dealings with Jane all seem to run along that path anyway: easier to accept and move on from than to pause and consider. Trying to understand the concessions he has made to her would only serve to frustrate him. It would be a pointless exercise, a demonstration of how far he has fallen. He's fully aware of the fact that he has lost much of his bearing. It would be intolerable, except that it has been a benefit to his diplomacy. Focus, then, is the strategy to employ.

Once freed, he pulls the coverlet over Jane's sleeping form. She's a distraction, nothing more. A lovely one, with pleasing proportions and an aptitude for magic and an understanding of the universe that keeps her entertaining. Still, it is hardly a situation that requires reflection.

At least, this is what he tells himself. He is, after all, a god of lies.

* * *

The days lose track of themselves, and though he is certain it hasn't been more than seventy-two hours since he's last seen Jane, she doesn't exactly seem pleased when he appears in her lab. She sits, rather listlessly, upon the battered couch, staring into space. He's not used to such a reception. Jane Foster is usually buried in research papers or digital data that streams across her laptop screen, and while she is presently surrounded by books, they aren't her usual fare. She looks at him with a distance in her eyes that make him wonder if perhaps he hasn't been gone much longer.

Loki is tired though. Seventy-two hours of hopping through space and meeting with diplomats, royalty, and military commanders, is a wearying amount of time. Considering that he didn't sleep the last time he was here, its been closer to a Midgardian week since he's properly rested. He suspects that he looks worse for wear, as well. It wasn't just the last delegation he met with that seemed concerned about his skin tone.

Jane pulls herself up from the couch, taking the few steps towards him. She seems hesitant, subdued in a way that he isn't familiar with. Perhaps this is just the wreckage of what he started that last time he was here. The niggling concern that he may have done damage to whatever partnership or arrangement they had rises more fiercely within him. He notices that Jane looks almost as weary as he does. There are hollows under her eyes, and for a mortal living in the desert, she is almost wretchedly pale.

"Are you," her voice is faint, its tone strung tense as a hunter's bow, "Are you married?"

Jane refuses to meet his gaze, her slow steps halting just out of his reach. Her fingers are knotted together, tangled in the frayed yarn of the cuffs of her sweater. He watches her twist the ugly fabric, her nerves screaming at him across the gulf between them.

"Yes," he replies in an almost terrifyingly even tone. For him, it hardly matters. He may be married, but the union itself has no meaning beyond having kept him out of the dungeons. He can't see any reason to lie, besides. Mortals aren't exactly constant themselves.

The slump of her posture suggests otherwise, however, and Loki feels his forehead furrow at her reaction. "Oh," she whispers, dismay leeching from the single syllable and filling the room with a suffocating stillness. "So…" she swallows hard, her head leaning to the side as if regarding the toes of her bare left foot. Jane is nothing if not brave, so she'll soldier on with her questions. She always does. "So Sigyn is real then?"

There's a long moment as curious surprise writes itself across Loki's face, though Jane does not look up to see it. "She is," he tells her, uncertain how the woman who had turned him down related to the previous question.

"And you had kids with her?" Jane's voice is little than a squeak, but Loki still makes out the words. Words which send a smirk across his lips.

"Ah," he laughs, his eyes properly looking at the books Jane has surrounded herself with in the time he has been gone. She seems to have made a study out of _him_, and the fragile lies and truths than form her world's mythology. He laughs again, taking a step towards her coffee table and pulling up the nearest tomb. He flips through the pages, and memories return to him as he skims the words that twist events in ways that are nearly beyond belief. He grimaces though, when he catches the line about his true parentage. Even myths start somewhere.

He slams the book closed with one hand. "That," he announces to a startled Jane who has finally decided to meet his gaze, "Was a _very_ long time ago." His smirk widens, "It may also have been slightly embellished. Possibly not just by your primitive ancestors." He is certain that the mischief shows in his eyes, but now, reminded of the terrible lies he spread about the fair Sigyn who had the nerve to turn him down, it all seemed terribly funny. Particularly the part where the lies were still in circulation down here, when Sigyn herself had forgotten the entire event centuries ago.

But clever Jane isn't so easily placated. "But you _are_ married," she states, with a wary finality in her eyes.

It's a look that doesn't sit well with him. The fire demon has taken too much from him already, and Loki will not lose whatever _this_ is with Jane over something as ridiculous as a forced marriage. Or, somewhat forced marriage. His smirk melts into something just a little bitter as he drops the book back onto the table and closes the distance between himself and Jane. He looks down at her intently, using a single finger to draw her chin upwards until her caramel eyes are focused upon his. He can't stand to see her stare at the floor when her eyes should be on him.

"Does that really matter?" he asks, his tone holding just slightly more venom than he had intended it to.

"Shouldn't it?" Jane replies, her expression wrinkling into frustrated displeasure. "I'm not that woman," she says, her entire being radiating hurt, "I don't want to be…"

"My mistress?" he supplies flatly. He's really getting quite bored with these momentary outbursts of morality that Jane seems to spawn. She'll be doing just fine, and then suddenly she falls back into some sort of morass of guilt and virtue that he truly cannot stomach. It's as if she hasn't quite accepted that he is with _him_, the god of lies and mischief, and not _Thor_, the god of ridiculous self-absorption and righteousness.

"Yeah," she agrees lamely, her head leaning away from him again so she doesn't need to meet his eyes, "That."

"There was a time you humans would have been thrilled to be the mistress of a god." His tone is growing more annoyed and Loki knows that this may not end quite how he has hoped. Far be it for him to back down, however. He'd rather go sleepless and without sex than bow to Jane's tremulous hold on morality.

She's looking at him now, rage in her eyes. "Let me get this straight," she spits, her hands rising and pushing against his chest, "I'm supposed to be thrilled to be your mistress, just because your species lives long enough for you to have known my primitive ancestors and been worshiped by them as a god?" She shoves him back, and though he could have ignored the pressure of her hands, Loki lets her propel him a half-step back. He's slightly amused by this temper tantrum she has apparently worked herself up into over the last few days. She's glaring up at him, that terribly appealing ferocity suddenly there in her eyes.

Loki smirks, he's fascinated by this side of Jane. Worked up like this, she almost seems to border on dangerous herself. It's really something of a turn on…

"You aren't my _god_," she hisses at him.

It's a short circuit in his brain, and Loki pretends that he can't help the way he reacts. He seizes Jane's hands in his own, wrenching her wrists in a way that throws her forward into him. He towers over her and he sees the flash of fear in her eyes as she writhes helplessly against him, locked in place by his iron grip on his wrists that tremble just behind her back. "That isn't what you said the other night," he replies darkly, licking his lips maliciously.

Jane is more than she appears, for even like this, her eyes dart towards his mouth before flickering back to his gaze. The moment of fear is gone from her eyes, and she looks only confused and aroused now. Even the anger has slipped from her expression, though he can feel the heat of her body upon him, even through the enchanted leather of his diplomatic armour. "Loki," she whispers, her tongue darting out to lick her own pink lips.

"Does it really matter?" he hisses, leaning his head forward so that his mouth is level with her ear. His hold on her wrists borders on punishing, and he only loosens it a fraction at the tiny whimper that Jane lets slip. "Does it matter, Jane?" he murmurs again, licking slightly at the shell of her ear. "Would that really be enough to stop you?" She wriggles in his grasp even as she moans ever so quietly. Her hands are twisting in his now, and he already suspects that she isn't trying to free them to push him away again. "Would it help if you knew it was a loveless marriage?" he coaxes, "Would it help to know its simply a marriage of political convenience?"

He trails kisses down the slope of her neck and jaw, smiling at her less-than-earnest attempts to resist. He perfected seduction over a thousand years ago; they both know that she won't resist him for long. Not Jane, who is just a little in love with her loneliness and the risks only she among all her kind can take. She finally breaks her wrists free of his hold, and just as he has predicted, she uses them to pull herself closer into his embrace.

"Yes," she whispers, her tone broken and raw, "Yes, it helps." She's just a little breathless and her eyes are wide with something akin to panic as she forces their eyes into meeting, "It still doesn't make this right."

Loki smiles bitterly at her. Jane is terribly naïve. "My Jane," he says softly, "There is nothing that could make this right."

She sheds exactly three tears. Neither of them acknowledge the existence of the tears at the time. Its only later that Loki holds them like drops of poison in his heart.


	22. Chapter 22

The dungeon is damp and dark, and Thor is getting impatient. There's every possibility that the covert machinations of his mother and Heimdall have only served to allow Loki to escape. There's the possibility that he will use this opportunity to slither away, leaving them all to die. Once upon a time, he would have killed anyone who said such a thing with his bare hands. Now, Thor can't help but think them himself. He paces restlessly, his strength and his ties to Mjolnir bound up in the usurper's dark magic. He's a man of action and this waiting for outside forces to aid him is eating him alive.

He's purposefully sent Loki to Jane. It's a betrayal that burns in his veins. Jane is sweet and good and brave, and he had sworn that she would be protected. Instead, he has sent the monster to her door. He doesn't know for sure that Loki will do as he has been bade. He doesn't know anything about his once-brother anymore. Thor sits on the wooden bunk, ignoring its ominous creak.

"My son," Frigga murmurs graciously, prying herself from the corner of the cell, where she has been leaning upon the solid bars, eyes directed at the faint light at the end of the hall. She is waiting for someone to appear. Thor never asks who she waits for, he suspects she waits for Loki and he doesn't want his bitter doubts to flood into his mother's heart as well.

"My son," she sighs again, her slender and elegant hands slipping into Thor's much larger ones as she kneels down before him. With all her grace and regal beauty, his mother is kneeling upon the cold stone floor of a dungeon. She carries hope and patience like a beacon, and when one hand frees itself to cup Thor's somewhat grizzled cheek, she offers that hope and patience to him. "It will be alright, my son," she says softly. Thor doesn't understand how she can be so calm when his heart is a raging sea, confined unnaturally within his chest.

"All will be as it should be," she insists, her hand running up his head to ruffle through his hair, "You will see."

For a moment, Thor can feel his mother's peace ease into his heart and mind. She has a strange magic, and sometimes, in these tiny, healing ways, it escapes the binds that contain it. It is only a fragile moment, however, because no sooner does Thor begin to settle than a piercing shriek cuts through the dungeon hall.

"You won't take me alive!" the woman's voice is ragged and harsh. "You are cowards!" she shrieks, "Cowards too pitiful to face me and a warrior's death!"

Time stands still as the voice of one of Thor's dearest companions wrenches him from the calm his mother has tried to give him. "Sif?" he roars, leaping from the wooden bunk and clearing the distance between himself and the bars of the cell in a moment.

His friend looks battered and starved. Her armour is dirty and damaged. Her hair is a tangled knot. Still, she does not relent, even in the arms of her captors. Heavy-set, heavily-armoured guards from Muspell hold her by the arms, dragging and kicking her along the hall. Their eyes gleam with their souls of fire and their lips are pulled back into snarling expressions of hatred. Sif's words reverberate across the metal they wear but leave no mark on their barely conscious minds.

Watching her struggle, Thor feels shame, sickening and solid in his gut. Sif has spent these weeks, months, fighting as hard as she could. He knows from his mother that she has been the leader of the resistance on Asgard. She has used every trick she has ever learned to wage a war against overwhelming odds. He has been locked in a cell.

"Thor!" she cries, her blackened eyes suddenly seeing him. He watches her jaw tremble, her body still. "Thor," she repeats, and it is an invocation, a sob, a plea. He has never dreamed that Sif could be broken, yet she's barely holding on right now.

"Sif," he says, his voice choked on emotion and guilt. His hand reaches out to her, and for the barest moment, his fingertips cross hers. Only the barest moment though, for the guards who drag her snap and glare, yanking her farther down the hall. Their task is easier now, for Sif has collapsed, the sobs tearing themselves from her heaving chest. There is pain in the sounds she makes, and Thor suspects that broken ribs would explain the wheezing sound that escapes her between heart-wrenching wails.

"Peace, Thor," his mother says softly, just behind his shoulder, "This is as it must be." Her voice is firm, but the tone crumbles slightly. She is not unmoved by Sif's state, but she does know how things must be. Thor believes this about his mother. He trusts this. It still does not keep his heart from breaking as he watches the guards throw Sif into a cell across the hall and several paces down from their own. He turns and finds himself in his mother's embrace. Thor feels nothing like a warrior.

* * *

Thor thinks that several days must have passed since Sif was dragged in. He cannot tell the passing of days, but Sif has calmed. Her ribs sound as if they have begun to mend. His mother has stretched faint tendrils of healing and soothing magic across the space between their cells. Sif is composed now. This means, of course, that she is ready to speak of battle and strategy.

"We had word from Alfheimr," she says quietly, her voice crossing the space between as she tries to explain the situation without giving away too much to any who might bother to listen to the ramblings of prisoners. "Apparently a diplomat of ours is gaining traction within their court. The messenger seemed pleased with the concessions being made."

"Concessions?" Thor prompts, his expression one of concern as he regards his mother. It concerns him that Loki might promise things beyond what Asgard will willingly part with.

Sif emits a sound partway between snort and scoff. "I'm more concerned about who exactly this diplomat may be," she snaps. "I authorized nothing from the resistance, and I know of no one remaining in the palace who would be willing to put their lives on the line by playing double agent."

Thor's expression is pleading as he silently begs his mother for the permission she has strictly denied. They are not to speak Loki's name. If any single word would direct attention down towards them, it is probably his name. Twisting his name in with the tale of the unnamed diplomat would simply bring the forces of Muspell upon his head. And then they would all be doomed.

There is a long silence from Sif. "This is all Loki's fault," she says idly, her voice containing a gritty edge. "If he had just left well enough alone, then you would be King of Asgard and this _empress_ would have remained in her own realm."

"It is not _all_ Loki's fault," Thor amends, silently begging his mother's forgiveness for mentioning his name. Frigga's face already holds the anxiety that suggests that someone has taken notice of the use of his name.

"It is also my fault," Thor continues, "And my father's. And perhaps, all of Asgard's."

He can hear Sif grind her teeth, even from this distance. "How, exactly, can you still defend him?" she demands, fury in her tone. "After all he has done…"

"Enough," Thor cries, his voice far louder than he has intended. "Is it not enough to know that I cannot hate my brother?" he asks, even as his mind whispers traitorously that Sif is right, that even he is uncertain about where Loki's loyalties really lie.

"He married…" Sif begins again, apparently intent upon the topic.

"I said enough!" Thor yells again, the pain and torment in his voice ringing through the dungeons. "What he does to survive is his business," he finishes brokenly.

"Oh, I think he does things for more than just his survival," a new voice suggests silkily. The unloved empress of Muspell stalks down the dungeon hall towards them. "You know," she says spitefully, a lithe, olive-toned fingertip dancing across her painted lips, "I had just about forgotten who I had locked up in my dungeons." Her dark eyes simmered with violence, "Can you imagine? Forgetting about the Thunderer? The rightful heir to the throne of Asgard?"

Apart from her tail, which winds its way around her long legs, she looks similar enough to those of Asgard or Midgard. It is a glamour, Thor knows, for appearances aside, she is a fire demon. She even smells faintly of smoke and soot. She pauses before him, cocking a head to the side as she regards him. "You aren't entirely unappealing, I suppose," she says, looking him up and down the way Fandral would assess a Midgardian woman. A sense of entitlement and superiority vibrates from her, as if she expects Thor to fall at her feet, begging to taste her lips.

There is nothing he can imagine more repugnant than that. He hopes the rage in his expression will convey this message. He does not trust his voice. If he could, he would simply trust his hammer.

She sighs, disregarding him. She looks at Frigga for a fraction of a second, "You must be so disappointed," she mocks, "Your sons are both pathetic."

Only Frigga could ignore such a statement with grace. Thor does not miss the slight wrinkle that forms around her eyes and lips, however. His mother is proud, and she loves her sons. She won't fall to this creature's level, however.

The fire demon frowns sulkily. "Well, neither of you is any fun then," she exclaims, stamping a foot slightly in childish impatience. She shakes her head and composes herself, dark hair tumbling across itself in a sensual and hypnotic manner. "And yet you had the nerve to disturb my entire palace just a moment ago," she sashays back to the bars in front of Thor are looks up at him. "You mentioned my husband," she coos.

"Step away, you faithless cur," Thor growls, his voice a stranger in his own ears.

"Faithless!" the demoness laughs, waving a hand as if to swat at the words, "What exactly have you heard all the way down here?"

Thor grinds his teeth. He does not want to engage this creature, but at the same time, he knows that her actions undermine whatever honour Loki still had. "I know that you will lie on your back for any one who offers you so much as a glance," he spits bitterly. "Women should be faithful to their husbands," he continues.

The amused glance she gives him suggests that she knows things he doesn't. "So," she purrs, "You have such an honourable view of the world. Would you agree then, that a husband should also be faithful to his wife?"

Thor is growing increasingly furious as the witch before him. Loki may have lost his way recently, but she is insinuating a lack of the exact moral background and fiber that they were both raised upon. "Yes," he grinds out, "Of course I do."

"Heimdall," the empress purrs as she pulls her head back. She smiles lightly as the gatekeeper emerges from the shadows beyond. His expression gives away nothing. "Heimdall," she repeats, "Why don't you show our dear brother-in-law just what my faithful husband is up to at this very moment? Perhaps the reason he was so willing to leave will be more _clearly illuminated_."

Thor takes a moment to process the command. "That is not necessary," he exclaims, knowing with chilling certainty that he has set the trap which will end all their hope. For Heimdall will look and will be forced to show. Loki will be caught, perhaps in the middle of the magic necessary for the creation of Bifrost, or in the midst of diplomatic relations on a planet he should not be able to access.

"But it _is_ necessary," the demoness spits, "For I must see why you have such faith in him, or, you must see why I do not."

Thor meets his mother's gaze with trepidation written across his face. Her eyes declare sadness and worry, but she shakes her head ever so slightly. He must not look towards her again, the conspiracy will be written across their faces.

"My Queen," Heimdall interjects, "If I may cast light upon this dark affair." His voice is heavy and certain, and catches the witch's interest. "The mortal Loki is involved with, is the same mortal with which Thor left his heart upon the end of his banishment to Midgard."

"Oh!" she breathes, all the delight in the worlds written across her face. "You mean to say…" she twirls around, her bright eyes drinking in Thor's dejected form. "You mean to say that I will not only break his spirit, but also his heart?"

"Is it not cruel enough, my Queen, that he must face this knowledge?" Heimdall asks softly, his eyes fixed upon Thor.

Inside, Thor can feel his heart in his throat. For if Loki is with Jane, then he is at least working upon the Bifrost. If Heimdall has convinced the empress that Loki's time spent with Jane is of a romantic nature, then it puts everything she believes into focus and explains Loki's continued presence with the mortal. Loki might yet be safe. The plan might yet remain undiscovered. Hope blooms within him and he struggles to maintain the façade of pain and disappointment. He understands now that it is their protection, not that which gives them away.

"One can never be cruel _enough_," she intones, her head held high as she demands to see what she believes will be the evidence of her husband's own faithlessness.

Thor holds his breath, hoping against hope that whatever moment Heimdall catches Loki in, that it is damning enough to convince the empress in her own beliefs.

Heimdall's gaze is sorrowful, and Thor nods ever so slightly. He trusts the gatekeeper to do what is best for Asgard. He has guarded his heart against the lies of this witch. He trusts in Jane's goodness. He is ignorant of the turning of Heimdall's head as he raises his sword, rending a hole through the fabric of space and making that which should be impossible to see viewable to those who surround him.

There is a silent stretch of time in which no one breathes. Then Sif gasps, her movement in the cell just beyond Thor's enough to force his brain to attempt to focus. He still does not want to. He has trusted Heimdall to show something damning. He did not expect that the gatekeeper would need no creativity to do so.

The demoness is staring at the image that hovers before them wearing a mask of impassivity. "See," she tosses a gesture. "I'm no worse than my husband. It's a marriage of politics, not of love or pleasure. We can both find that elsewhere." If she seems just slightly haunted, Thor is ignorant to the fact, for he cannot look away.

Through this window in space, he can see Jane. He brown hair tumbles over her shoulders, curls bunching in the pale fingers that twist through it. Loki holds her tightly to himself and if he is concerned with keeping her near, the language of Jane's body suggests that she cannot be near enough. Her hands, tiny and adorable with their chewed nails, are flexed desperately across the planes of Loki's armour. When they part, Loki rests his forehead against hers and Thor can taste the peace that his once-brother feels, for he has felt it too – the peace of Jane Foster's presence.

Thor has thought of Jane Foster. More than once, and not just in regards to her safety. His hands flex into fists by his sides. It is the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. This, he had not foreseen, but perhaps he should have. Loki has always wanted what has been his and Thor curses himself for bringing Loki's lies and games into Jane Foster's life. At the same time, he curses _her_. Jane Foster is intelligent and good and brave. She did not melt in his arms or beg to warm his bed. Thor cannot fathom how or why she should come to such a moment with Loki. She is better than this sort of temporary lust-driven behaviour. For a moment, his blood runs hot through his veins and pounds within his head.

Jane Foster opens her eyes and the wave of emotion that swamps Thor carries every prior thought away. Jane Foster _is_ better than that sort of behaviour and her eyes scream that it is not just lust that has driven her into Loki's arms.

Though she cannot know it, Thor's eyes stare directly into hers. In them, he can see love with depth and breadth that he has never known. No one has ever looked upon him with eyes so full of emotion. Maidens have loved him, but their eyes have never carried the weight of such love as Jane Foster must feel. Her eyes cry with all the hurt and terror and joy and hope that love can bring. Thor can carry no ill-will against her now. Her eyes tell him that she would die for his adopted brother, that she will follow him to the end of worlds. No one has ever loved Thor in such a way, and his eyes close, finally willing to see no more. His heart breaks for Jane Foster and her impossible devotion.

"So you see now that I am right," announces the usurper to his father's throne. Thor shakes his head, refusing to open his eyes. He has just been witness to something with an importance that transcends the witch's petty arrogance. That someone, a Midgardian no less, can love Loki suggests that his adopted brother is not beyond redemption. Love like Jane's can save lives and sway fate itself. It is not what he would have hoped for her, but Thor can imagine no one better suited to the task of saving Loki from himself.

"You can open your eyes," taunts the demoness, "I've made the scary pictures go away."

She believes she is condescending, that Thor is hurting from the sting of betrayal. She has not seen in Jane's eyes what he has seen. She cannot understand the hope and sorrow that fills Thor now. He has love in his heart for Jane Foster, but it had not yet had time to fully take hold. Knowing what he knows now, Thor can only hope that Loki will not throw the gift Jane offers him away. Doing so would shatter Jane's heart. Its an aching truth that burns in Thor's throat. He knows how it feels to have one's love denied by Loki.

Thor opens his eyes and regards the self-proclaimed empress with pity. Words escape him, but he shakes his head slowly. He will let her think what she will. Perhaps she will believe that she has broken his heart or destroyed his spirit. Perhaps she simply believes that she has splintered his faith in morality, for that did seem to be her original intent. Never mind that it is all meaningless now.

She narrows her eyes at him. "You bear your heartbreak well, Thunderer," she mocks quietly.

Frigga presses close to the bars beside him, peering at the demoness. "Perhaps his heart is not the only one that breaks?" she observes quietly.

There is a sudden fire in the witch's eyes. "How dare you presume?" she spits, fury radiating from her, propelled by a wave of heat that peels from her glamoured body. She turns on her heel and stamps down the dungeon hall.

Heimdall lingers for a moment, his eyes sending a silent message to Asgard's true royal family. Thor feels his throat close slightly. He wants to know that Loki is still capable of love, that Jane will not be destroyed. He cannot ask. It is too dangerous. Heimdall meets his questioning eyes, but betrays nothing. A moment later, he is following the demoness.

"All will be as it should be," Frigga murmurs, her fingertips dancing across Thor's shoulder. He turns to his mother, who's gaze seems to be focused somewhere very far away. A sorrowful smile crosses her lips, "As it _must _be," she amends.

Thor shakes his head. "I wish I had your faith, mother," he says softly.

Her sad smile lifts, her eyes awash with crystalline tears. "It is not faith I trust in," she whispers.

Just a short distance away, there is the sound of a head hitting against metal. Thor looks out into the murky half-light and sees Sif, her forehead against the cell bars. Her eyes flash upwards to focus upon Thor. Even from this angle, he can see the judgment in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Thor," she says quietly. "I know Lady Foster meant…"

"She means something to my brother," he interrupts her, his tone brusque. He cannot explain what he has seen and understood. He knows Sif cares not for Loki's redemption. He knows he cannot say too much or it will bring the witch back.

Something shifts in Sif's gaze. Something hidden becomes seen. "You are the rightful King of Asgard," she says quietly. There are many words she wants to say. The silence tells him this. Sif is a warrior, however, and she is used to saying more in action than she can express in any other way. Her eyes meet his in the darkness, "I will die, if I must, to see you there."

Something resonates within Thor and for a long moment, he absorbs the look in Sif's eyes. A painful smile breaks upon him. "Do not die," he commands, "For I would have you see me there with your own eyes."

"For you, Thor," she says softly. He understands now that she means "my love."


	23. Chapter 23

_Erk… This is not one of my best chapters, I don't think. There's a need for some plot to shuffle things forward and its integrated a bit sloppily. I also use too many commas. Sometimes, I think I should look for a beta…_

* * *

Jane isn't sure how she feels about herself these days. It is past midnight and she is nursing a mug of hot chocolate. She has no excuse to drink coffee. Dully, she wonders if it is rather sad that she finds the sweetness of the drink less satisfying than bitter, black coffee. She wraps her hands more firmly around the mug. She isn't sure the preference of bitter over sweet has anything to do with beverages.

She spends most of her time alone, but that is nothing new. The only difference between then and now is that once upon a time she had a choice between companionship and solitude. Now the solitude feels non-optional. She waits for Loki to break the stretches of silence that fill her lab. It isn't a pattern she is comfortable with.

In fact, there is very little about what is happening between them that she is comfortable with. Every moment she spends sitting alone in her lab is a moment spent deep in emotional turmoil. It isn't healthy. Too much time is spent waiting for him. Too much time and too much energy. She feels wasted.

And then he arrives and everything is a blur of wonder and joy and desire and lust and hope. Between the magic, the stories, and the sex, Jane is kept on a rollercoaster ride of excitement. He is everything she has ever looked for in a partner: intelligent, encouraging… and dangerous (she's spent too much time analyzing her previous relationships to pretend she doesn't find the trait attractive). He forces her to push the limits and boundaries on her understandings of universe. With him, doors open everywhere. But then he leaves, and Jane becomes only too aware of the doors that have closed in the meantime.

Which is why it is past midnight, and she is nursing a mug of lukewarm hot chocolate. She can't sleep. There's no work to do. She's already practiced storing things in extra-dimensional pockets for three hours today. Loki hasn't showed up in nearly three days. Jane Foster isn't patient. In her head, she's already imagined Darcy telling her she needs to get a life half a dozen times. "I can't get a life," she tells the imagined Darcy, "I have a wanted war criminal for a sort-of boyfriend who magically pops in and out of my lab at all hours of the day and night."

She doesn't need to let him be the center of her universe though. She knows this. She also knows that life is easier when she lets it float along this way. Inviting other things into her life, inviting other people into her life, will make things very complicated. She will need to learn to lie. She will need to finally acknowledge the guilt she feels. She will need to learn to say no to Loki. She will need to re-establish boundaries. She doesn't particularly want to do any of these things. She also suspects she won't be all that good at any of them either.

Jane sighs. With a wave of her hand, the mug disappears from her fingers. She directs it to the sink in the kitchen without ever leaving the couch. She curls up, reaching into an extra-dimensional pocket to retrieve the blanket she stored there earlier. She shakes the folded coverlet out over herself, letting a tiny magic-induced breeze fill it out so it falls comfortably upon her. There's a smug sense of pride in her chest. As far as she knows, there isn't another human on the planet who can do any of the things she has just done. Even if there is, its highly unlikely that they can also explain the mathematical theorems that support the physical phenomenon. She can. Truthfully, Jane is fairly certain that she knows more about the universe-at-large than any other human alive. It gives her a little thrill, this sense of superiority. She wears it like armour to ward off the loneliness.

It's not all sunshine though. Jane curls up tighter, shifting beneath the blanket. Fingers trace symbols into the air, and a splattering of magic makes them visible. Air molecules are enough to create the impression of a dry erase board.

There's a fundamental problem with the Einstein-Rosen Bridge calculations. It isn't the power needed or the theory behind it. It's actually a rather basic concern, which is why she supposes she missed it the first time around.

A bridge requires space to be built. Even temporary, wormhole-like bridges that seem to manifest as tunnels through the fabric of space-time and clouds on the receiving ends. Her numbers won't create anything like the Rainbow Bridge from the myths she has read. Of course, if she believes Loki, the Rainbow Bridge was simply a way to automate the process of forming the wormholes.

It isn't her only concern though. Armies need to congregate somewhere. Those same armies somehow need to travel through the Einstein-Rosen Bridge. That requires even more space. And time. And Earth has a rather large number of organizations and individuals who are perfectly capable of recognizing large influxes of power and huge standing armies of alien life forms.

She seriously hopes that Loki's plan takes these things into account. Because she really doesn't want to go down as the woman who handed Earth to the aliens.

* * *

There is ecstasy in surrender. There was a time when Jane would have laughed at the thought of letting herself be dominated by a man. The idea of being helpless in a man's arms would have been humorous, if only because it was also vaguely terrifying. The idea of losing oneself, of surrendering one's autonomy and pride to another, even in the name of pleasure (or god forbid, love), ran contrary to the things she was trying to achieve as a woman studying physics. Her every day was a battle against male dominance. Why would she surrender just because there was sex involved?

She suspects that she should never have set such things up as forbidden in her mind. It makes them somehow more appealing now, and there's a part of her that feels betrayed by her own self because of it. There is no excuse for violence against women. There's no justification for inequality.

It doesn't stop her from moaning when Loki pins her wrists above her head. She's lost in sensation as his lips trace a path down the arch of her neck and the rise of her breasts. She writhes in the tight space between his body and the wall he has her up against. The movement is enough to make him growl, a sound that bypasses her higher brain functions and targets whatever part of her gets to decide how badly she wants him. He isn't gentle when he crushes his lips to hers. He devours her, and she gives of herself gladly. He demands she be his and only his. She can't imagine anyone else ever warranting a second glance.

His leg forces its way between her thighs. There's something about the angle or the way he has her completely at his mercy that drives her out of her own mind. There is only his mouth and the friction that drives the warmth pooling below her belly. She wants him, only him, and desperately. His hands are almost bruising against her wrists and where she once would have requested that he move her somewhere more comfortable, she now demands things like "here" and "now" and "faster." He takes more than she knows she can offer and in turn it teaches her just how much more there is. He sends her to unbelievably heights and then he forces her to her knees. It must mean something that she goes willingly.

Sometimes, she isn't sure if he is widening her horizons or just simply using her. If there had been a moment in between their lessons and stories and the trade of magic for math where they had almost been friends, it persists only by a string. She doesn't stand up to him as much as she once did. It's a trend that scares her, because she can't figure out if he is doing less to inspire her anger and frustration or if she has stopped expecting him to change. She worries that she lets him go too far, that whatever chance she has had to prove herself equal is lost in the fractious moments when he leans in with his wild, dark eyes demanding that she bow to his desires. She does. She thinks that might be the wrong thing to do. She does it again next time.

Loki is like an addiction. He's her only real companionship. He's always so terribly good at pulling her in with the magic and the stories of other worlds. By the time he demands anything from her, she's so entranced with him that she doesn't want to say no. She wants to crawl into his arms and let him make the rest of the world disappear. She wants to let him draw out the pleasure and the pain, to bind her and control her. He's a god; how can she say no? She forgets whatever she used to be, whatever she used to want.

And she loves him.

It's a terrible, horrible, painful sort of thing. He will coax her into learning a new spell or skill, and she loves his eyes as they flash with pride. He will tell her lazily of the on-going feud between Slatholis and Triactis, and his part in the treaties that promise to end it, and she loves him for the good he's doing, apparently ignorant of the fact that he is, in fact, saving races from wiping each other out. He ravishes her and she loves the passion that flares between them. He kisses her slowly, carefully, completely, and she loves him for everything he is: broken, lonely, and monsterous. She loves him, even if he hasn't yet really let her in. She loves him, even knowing that he will continue on for millennia after her, forgetting about her. She is nothing to him, but he is everything to her. She knows she loves him, because her heart is breaking.

* * *

The room is quiet. Jane feels languid, her body slowly cooling in the seconds away from his touch. She stretches lazily, her fingers and toes wiggling as she rolls onto her side. She peers into the darkness. Loki lays beside her, his eyes apparently focused on the ceiling. They made it to a hotel room this time. Jane is more than a little pleased. She's the one who magicked them here, after all.

It had surprised him, but she'd watched the surprise melt into wonder and then desire. Whatever it is that they have is strange beyond belief. He wants to be the one in control. He's desperate for it, really. At the same time, though, he's awfully impressed when she shows any sign of real magical ability or power. Perhaps he hasn't quite reached the conclusion, that one day, if she lives long enough, she might just rival him. She blames the love she feels for him for the desire to be his equal. Any other part of her attraction to him is perfectly content with the status quo.

"You shouldn't have been able to do that," he says quietly.

Jane jerks slightly. The languid feeling in her bones is quickly being replaced by a sense of curious nervousness. Perhaps he has reached the conclusion then, and has simply been avoiding the processing of it. She feels him shift his body until he is lying on his side as well. He faces her, his eyes shadowed by the darkness. Her mouth is dry. He's figured out why she could make the spell work.

"The amount of power it takes to transport someone else as well as yourself," he trails off slightly, "Unless you are actually aware of all the variables…"

Jane bites on her lower lip, carefully considering this. Technically, this isn't the part of his visit where they talk. Generally the sex is followed by sleep and general avoidance of the acknowledgement that their relationship is very nearly bipolar. There are also certain topics that are generally avoided. "But I do know all the variables," she whispers back.

There is a long silence. Jane knows why. He's less than willing to accept that he isn't quite what he seems, and for her to "know" all the variables, she would have had to take that into account. Accepting that she knows what he really is involves letting her in just that little bit more than he seems to want to. It isn't really something she wants to force.

"I have a question about the bridge," she says finally, awkwardly changing the subject. He's had plenty of time to engage the previous thought. She'd rather avoid him making a scene over what he is or isn't. "Where, exactly, do you plan on storing the army before you send them to Asgard?"

"I don't," was Loki's brusque reply. Jane stared at him the darkness. She knew he could see her expression clearly, even if she could only make out shadows to identify his face. She waited patiently for him to elaborate. "We'll create the bridges from Asgard to each of the armies," she could feel the smirk that spread across his face. "We only need to get there first."

Jane breathed, a hundred questions forcing themselves down upon her. "You mean, we aren't just going to make one Einstein-Rosen Bridge," she began quietly, "We're going to make twenty?"

"More like ten," he shrugged, the movement transmitting itself through pillows and blankets rather than sight.

Jane blinked helplessly. The amount of magic and power that would take was intense, not to mention the focus required would be… "How are we going to that and protect ourselves as well?"

"Hush!" the voice that cut through the darkness was a harsh, abrupt command. "You are watched!"

In a blind panic, Jane bolted upright, grasping at the bedclothes even as her mind grasped at any number of attack spells. She was still weak with them, but faced with an intruder to a bedroom no one even knew they were in, she was ready to fire anything she could come up with.

The light came on with a heavy sigh on Loki's part. Jane glanced over at him, startled by his lack of alarm. She watched as he ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it rumpled and even wilder than it had been previously. His expression was less than pleased, but didn't seem to hold any fear, more a haughty displeasure. The sheet that she had pulled up over herself rode low on his hips in consequence. He made no move to pull it up.

"Huginn," he acknowledged icily, "Have you nowhere better to hide than the shadows of my bedchambers?"

Jane turned her head to follow Loki's gaze, and watched with mute surprise as a funny-shaped shadow detached itself from a corner of the room. It seemed to flap its way across, only to settle upon the rumpled coverlet at the foot of the bed, where it stood still for a moment, pulling itself up to its full height and piercing Jane with a beady glare. Jane gasped as she realized that an immense raven stood before her, fixing her with an avian stare. "You have become more than mortal," it said to her, its voice hoarse, "Be wary of your powers. You know not the consequence."

Jane stared at the bird for a long moment, failing to fully understand what exactly was happening. "I don't," she began, her voice failing her. "Are… are y-you," she stuttered.

"Huginn," Loki interjected, "Why are you here?" Each word was enunciated with clear and sharp directness, but the bird seemed to take little heed.

"You're being watched," the raven stated with equal clarity, "And you are being a fool."

Loki glared at the bird. It was becoming evident to Jane, as bewildered as she was, that there was definite history here. There was also a sense of alarm rising on Loki's features, which set off warning bells for her as well.

"Describe watched," he barked, tension in his jaw.

"It has only been once thus far, as far as your mother knows," the raven said in a surprisingly hushed voice considering its apparent species. "But there is concern. _She_ is aware that her sister and the Vanir girl have not been well minded."

"And what exactly am I supposed to do about that?" Loki grated out, his eyes getting darker. "I can't exactly keep _those two_ out of trouble and organize an army and plan a Bifrost attack…"

"Embra is a possible opportunity!" the raven squawked back.

"She's impossible!" Loki snapped in response.

Jane sensed that there was no love lost between Loki and what was becoming rapidly apparent to be one of the two ravens of Norse myth. It wasn't the rising tempers that had caught her interest though. "Who's Embra?" she interrupted, curiousity and concern written across her face.

She had thought she'd made peace with the fact that there were huge swathes of things she didn't know about Loki. She was suddenly uncertain that peace extended to females named "Embra." A further thought crossed Jane's mind, "And who is "she" and why is she watching us?" If her voice became a little shrill, Jane couldn't help but think that it might be justified.


	24. Chapter 24

_I wanted to get this out quickly, since its taken a bit longer than usual for me to finish this chapter and the last one ended really abruptly... if you notice any typos, please forgive me!_

* * *

There are moments Loki questions the wisdom in having involved himself so completely with Jane Foster. This is one of them.

She sits before him, tangled in nothing but a sheet, her eyes wide with growing suspicion and panic. Huginn preens himself as he stands upon the foot of the bed. Loki doesn't doubt that the raven's timing is purposeful. For whatever reason, Huginn has decided that Jane should become more informed. It's more than principle that has Loki in disagreement.

Mortals are, generally, too excitable. Humans, in particular, have a tendency to get overly emotional about nearly everything. While Jane Foster has thus far kept many of those emotions tightly reined, he is careful not to expect too much from her. She is, after all, only human.

"Loki?" she prompts, those wide eyes leveling upon him and begging for answers. Before them, Huginn raises his head and nods once before returning to the artful rearrangement of feathers.

He sighs. The decision to tell Jane Foster the truth, or at least part of it, had been made long ago. It was far too late to go back upon that decision now and with Huginn in attendance, any lies he crafts would still have to hold at least a minimal amount of truth. The bird seems intent upon that much.

"The throne of Asgard is in control of the Empress of Muspell," he says finally, a bitter grimace upon his lips. "She is the one who threw most of the Aesir into the dungeons. She is the one who might be watching us. She is the one the armies will attack."

To her credit, Jane absorbs this information without expression. She nods stiffly, swallowing slowly as she considers. "So this Empress is the usurper you talked about when you first showed up," she states quietly, not really requiring confirmation. He nods in response anyway. "And "those two"?" she parrots, wiggling fingers around the words he had emphasized just a few moments before.

Loki grinds his teeth. In light of Jane's sudden calmness, he is starting to feel that _he_ is the one who has been too overly emotional, at least since Huginn's arrival. Then again, perhaps he had already begun saying more than he'd meant to. And even that had been to cover over the moment where he should have accepted that Jane Foster apparently had no difficulty accepting what he really was, and somehow, had apparently discovered what exactly the Jotun were. Yes, it is once again clear that he has let himself get far too tangled with Jane.

"Loki?" she repeats, and it is only then that he realizes that he has been silent for just a few moments too long. Her expression has dropped to one of concern, and he almost curses her aloud for caring. She has no right to be this deeply involved, to have come to know him at all. She was only ever supposed to be pawn.

"Embra is sister to the Empress. She is on Midgard, in the company of a Vanir girl she befriended." In a moment, he will construct some excuse to leave and he'll stay away long enough that this insulting imparting of truth and fact will have passed.

"Wow," Jane says drily. It's a tone of voice he doesn't associate with her, although hearing it, he suspects it comes more naturally to her than most of the tones he _is _familiar with. "You guys really just use Earth as a dumping ground, don't you?" she actually seems indignant, and the idea of a mortal indignant with the workings and rulings of Asgard and the higher realms is terribly amusing. "Hey, So-and-so needs some lessons in maturity, let's send them to Earth!" She's imitating a deep voice and what she must presume is a lordly attitude. "Spring break! Better send the teenagers to Earth! Who cares if they raise a little hell there!"

Huginn is staring at her now, stillness settling across his ruffled feathers. He cocks his head to the right. "It is rather like that," he concedes.

Loki closes his eyes. He re-opens them slowly. The raven and the human are still gazing at each other in mutual agreement. Jane still radiates indignation. The entire world feels vaguely surreal. Jane speaks with sarcasm and Huginn with humour. Perhaps the universe is listening to him after all.

It's a thought that spurs him into a vastly different direction. He has been intent on keeping a distance between himself and Jane Foster. He's been telling himself that it is necessary and will serve him better in the end. But that isn't quite right. He's a creature of chaos and mischief, and what could be more chaotic than pulling Jane right into the middle of the mix? His plans already rely on her assistance in creating the bridges, why not ask more of her? Why not allow his human mistress to play a role in the destruction of his demon wife? Devilish eyes turn upon Jane, who returns his gaze with trusting curiosity. "Go put on something pretty," he tells her, "You're going to meet them."

He ignores the chastising look Huginn gives him.

* * *

It's only the work of a moment for Jane to spell herself back to wherever it is she keeps her clothing. It takes slightly longer to bully Huginn into leaving Midgard. The bird glares at him with beady, dark eyes that reproach him. Loki tries his best to ignore the creature. He tells himself that there is no need for him to feel shame or regret for his actions regarding Jane. His nature, complete with lies, deceit, and cruelty, are currently in the employ of Asgard's rescue. He is not about to question his very personality simply because of the raven's censure. Jane, after all, seems to accepted him for what he is with greater completeness than he can manage for himself. Her eyes are far more open than most would credit. It can't be entirely his fault if the lady chooses her own path, can it?

When Jane reappears, nearly fifteen minutes later with an armful of things, none of which classify as pretty, he can only shake his head. She is brilliant, but she will never have any idea about how to dress. It's easy enough to get around, however. He has chosen her clothing before, after all, and what is a cocktail dress compared to a ballroom gown?

With a wave of his hand, she's attired as she should be, in a sleek emerald sheath that highlights her figure as her sweaters never do. Her hair has been sleeked back into something elegant, then loosened into something wilder and sexier. It's much more fitting than the usual nothing she manages herself. He watches her turn to peer at herself in the mirror, shock on her face. "Is that me?" she gasps, apparently shaken by the fact that a brush of magic can apply the illusion of makeup with greater skill and care than she can manage herself. He watches her lean in towards the mirror, her body arching over the hotel-standard dresser. She tilts herself back at an angle, her caramel eyes accentuated by feathery lashes. "You need to show me how to do that spell," she says, the glee and longing in her voice unmasked.

"It's just an illusion spell," Loki tells her, boredom in his tone. "It really isn't that difficult. You simply need to have an idea of what you want it to look like."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she glances back into the mirror. "I didn't know I could look like this," she admits quietly. She turns back toward him, letting her whole body rotate towards him as she folds her arms beneath her chest. She isn't aware of it, but the action has results he finds quite pleasing. "Why…" she sputters, "How did you have any idea I could look this good?"

Loki smiles benignly. "Really, my Jane," he begins softly, stepping closer towards her so he can run a hand along the curve of her neck and shoulder. The smile widens into a smirk as Jane trembles ever so slightly beneath his touch. The desire in her eyes is gratifying, and he sweeps her closer, breathing in her scent as he leans his head closer to her ear. "Would I take a consort who isn't beautiful?" he whispers wickedly, knowing her temper will flare, even though she will understand the hidden compliment and blush for it.

He doesn't wait for her to speak, instead wrapping his hands more tightly around her. This will be something new for her, for magic cannot take them across the face of a planet without a shortcut. With a smirk on his lips, Loki guides Jane through the elusive doorway in the fabric of space-time, using magic to push them sideways through material space and into the gap that simply wasn't.

* * *

The club is apparently somewhere in Northern Europe, though Loki can't quite find it in him to care which human country the territory claims to be. The music pulses in his ears unpleasantly, and while his dark suit isn't that out-of-place, he has had to tear about three inches from the hemline of Jane's already short dress. He's somewhat surprised that she had nothing to say on the matter, though it is possible that she has yet to notice the fact that her dress has gone from suggestive to indecent. He suspects that between her first transverse through a wormhole and the surroundings he has tracked Embra and Bryn to, Jane might just be stunned, speechless, and out-of-her-depth. He can't quite blame her.

If Loki was aggravated with the two younger immortals before, he isn't quite sure what word exists to describe his feelings now. He stands in a shadow, an arm wrapped possessively around Jane, furious to even be in such a place. Red and purple light plays across the walls, a poor visual trick that barely begins to hide the tawdriness of the establishment. Sad, lonely, mortal men sit with their eyes glued upon the figures that move sensuously across the stage above them. Mortal women, imperfections masked by the coloured lights tramp themselves before them, pretending to believe that they are actually desirable for debasing themselves.

"What is this place?" Jane whispers softly, swallowing hard enough that the movement travels through her frame. "And, why on Earth would there be Asgardians here?" If her voice trembles slightly on the words, Loki cannot fault her. A place like this would never come into being on Asgard. Sex was, on occasion, implicitly transactional, but a place like this? Never.

"They aren't Asgardians," he tells her, "Embra is a fire demon, of Muspell. Bryn is Vanir." It helps him a little, but still doesn't quite excuse what happens next.

The dancers, if one could label them as such, left the stage, taking with them whatever oddments they had shed in the act of performance. The lights changed. The music shifted. Two lithe figures appeared; silhouettes that exuded sensuality and youth.

The lights rose with the music and Loki watched Embra stalk forward across the stage, her lips mouthing the words of what passed for popular music on Midgard. Fingers curling, hair tumbling, she had an aura of sex incarnate, and to her credit, she was convincing enough that not a single mortal in the room questioned the fact that she had a tail that twitched and swished as no prop or costume could. From the corner of the stage, Bryn sauntered up beside her partner. Pale hands ran willfully and provocatively across mocha skin, and the two girls crooned lyrics about saviours and sin and, apparently, medical doctors to each other and the crowd, begging those assembled to "turn them on."

Fighting the urge to be ill, Loki grimaced and turned his gaze down upon Jane. Her eyes were fixated upon the swaying bodies of his supposed charges, apparently mesmerized.

"Jane?" he murmured, eyes jumping from her to the writhing figures beyond and back, "Are you alright?"

"Hmmm?" Jane hummed, her body vibrating against his own, where he held her perhaps too tightly to him, her back to his front. He felt her body move as if without volition against him, her movements stirring a reaction he would have thought himself incapable of in such a sordid place. "What _are_ they?" she murmured, her eyes caught on their figures as the song ended.

With another flashing glance, Loki drank in the fact that every mortal within the room seemed to be riveted upon the creatures occupying the stage before them. As alluring as the figures were, the mortals seemed to be thoroughly entranced. Loki felt his grimace deepen. The stupid girls were using magic. Possibly without conscious thought. It was a flagrant disregard for… well, every sort of decency.

The thought gave him pause. If this was his reaction, just what might other Asgardians think? Even the Vanir, with their relatively relaxed attitudes to sexuality would object to using broadcasted magic upon Midgardians. It might not be all out war, but it would be enough to earn some form of punishment. He would know. He'd earned punishment before. Though it would be nothing compared to what he would likely face before the Grand Council, should they ever preside over his punishment for actual all out war.

"I want to…" Jane was moving within his arms now, turning and twisting, "I need to…" She seemed to be completely beyond thought, and amusing as it was, distraction wasn't exactly what he needed right now. And distraction was exactly what she was, in this moment. Inwardly, he cursed himself for his vanity in dressing her so. The desire to watch her, to pull her even closer, to let her effect him, was almost frightening. It was enough to make him suspect that even he wasn't entirely immune to whatever magic Embra and Bryn had woven. With a shake of his head, Loki grabbed hold of Jane's elbow and began to cross the room in long strides. He felt her wobbling along behind him, struggling to follow and far too incoherent to quite comprehend anything.

With a gust of wind, he yanked open the doors to the establishment and thrust Jane out into the clearer night air that awaited them beyond. He shot a violent glare at the weighty man who seemed to take notice and offense at the purposefulness of his motion. The bouncer met his gaze for a moment, and then took a step back, averting his gaze. Loki snarled his annoyance and breezed past, Jane dragged along by the death grip he held on her arm.

With only a second's consideration, he had them walking along a cobbled promenade. Moonlight reflected off choppy wavelets as he stalked them over to a railing, overlooking the water. He was beyond frustrated. Embra and Bryn were apparently intent upon escalating their behaviour and there was no way the use of magic in such a manner, upon unsuspecting victims, could be overlooked for very long. Heimdall, no matter the strange protection he seemed to be offering to him now for Asgard's sake, would still feel obligated to reveal such a thing. And even Phyre, with her strange system of values, would be aware of the prohibitions against mind-control and would be wary of the political ramifications.

"There's no way to watch them and get the negotiations done as well," he admitted aloud, his eyes searching the night sky above them for answers.

"My arm hurts," Jane said suddenly. Loki released her elbow with the surprise with which one would release a hot iron. A quick glance at her forced him to accept that he had indeed bruised her in his fury and thoughtlessness. If there was a lucky side to any of it, it was the fact that she still seemed affected. Her caramel eyes gazed at him dreamily, her voice a distant murmur. "You were looking at my boobs earlier," she commented, without a trace of judgment or annoyance in her voice. "Don't think I don't know why you picked this dress." It was nearly endearing, the way she waggled a finger at him, a drunken smile spreading across her lips even as she struggled to feign seriousness. "I look _hot_," she squealed, clapping her hands across her mouth and giggling. "_You _think I'm sexy!"

There was a moment where Loki stared at her helplessly. There was a time that he had appeared on this planet, madness in his eyes. He wanted only power. He needed to watch it all burn. Now, he stood on a moonlit riviera, watching an awkward astrophysicist fight off the effects of a clumsy and misdirected mind-control spell. He wasn't sure what it meant that he wanted nothing more than to fuck the endearing creature into oblivion. Either he was regressing to some past phase of his life, or being immortal meant accepting that things were cyclical, including one's own self.

"You," she repeated, sashaying clumsily up to him and leaning a single finger against his lips, "think _I'm_ sexy." The words ended in a seductive whisper and Loki caught Jane's hand. His free arm wrapped itself around her of its own volition, his free hand settling on the curve between her thighs and the small of her back. Jane's mouth hung open slightly as her breath came in gentle pants.

"So help me, Miss Foster," Loki whispered across her lips, relishing the way she slide even closer to him, "I truly do." He caught her lips with his own, drawing the kiss out until he could feel her growing nearly desperate for breath.

Lips slightly bruised, hair tousled, and cheeks pink, Jane Foster leaned up towards him and whispered into his ear, "I think you're sexy too." There was a pause, and Loki began to turn his head, knowing he could catch her into another kiss. "And I bet you'd be just as sexy blue," she continued, her voice slightly breathless.

There was a fraction of a second in which Loki was certain he was going to drop her. For at least a portion of the second, he considered dropping her into the river. For a nanosecond, he contemplated the possibility of her never re-emerging from the river. Instead, he stood frozen.

She pulled away slightly, her caramel eyes wide with sincerity as she regarded him. "I know you don't want me to mention it," she whispered. "But there were pictures in some of the books, and then there's your magic readings. I knew the variables." The fog is clearing from her eyes, and whatever prompted her statement is turning into a continuation of the conversation she had allowed to die earlier. "I _know_ the variables," she insisted, even though her voice was still hushed. "I _know _what you are," she continued, "You don't need to keep running from it. It's not something you need to be ashamed…"

"That's enough," Loki cut her off. He set her solidly back on her feet. "More than enough," he added, glaring at her for a moment before flatly turning his back on her. She had no right and no place to insinuate or assume anything about what he may or may not feel.

"Fine," she barked, huffing slightly. "Why does my head hurt like hell?" she demanded suddenly. "And why do I seem to recall being in a strip joint?"

Anger begot anger with Jane, Loki reminded himself, even as he ignored her in favour of staring at the water. He supposed he was past getting upset about her impertinence. Alternately, it was entirely possible that putting up with Jane was his own form of penitence to Midgard. As if moments like this could cry out, "Look, foolish mortals! I wanted what was best for you. I would have accepted your abilities and strengths, once you bent to my will. See? Observe Jane Foster. Apparently she can even yell and make demands, so long as she accepts and understands that she belongs to me."

He suspected, somehow, that still might not be good enough for most humans.

"Loki?" Jane's voice was somewhat tremulous, and he turned finally. She was a lovely mess, her makeup smudged just enough to look sultry, her dress clinging longingly to her body. She was always ready to fight, and always ready to bend, but only to him. It was something that pleased him, this illusion of fight she offered him, followed so quickly by her submission.

"Embra and Bryn are presently performing in an adult entertainment situation," he admitted quietly. "I suspect it was rather overwhelming for you."

Jane looked at him, her expression one of confusion. "I feel like I'm missing things," she admitted quietly, moving almost subconsciously into his arms. She was still for a long time, curled into his embrace. "You said," she murmured finally, "That you can't keep watching them and get the negotiations done too."

Loki nodded against her hair, eyes staring into some distant space and only half aware of the fact that he was absorbing as much comfort from their embrace as Jane did.

"The Empress, she's watching?" Jane questioned aloud, the tone suggesting that she was thinking out loud rather than seeking confirmation. "So someone needs to watch them. They can't stay where they are… they're teenagers!"

"The equivalent of, yes," Loki muttered in reply, casting his gaze down upon Jane. She was so small in his arms, her body so tiny. She had no right to look at him so earnestly. "Are you offering to do it?" he asked, a trace of humour in his voice.

Jane didn't meet his gaze. She seemed deeply intent upon the stitching of his suit jacket pocket. "They're very powerful, aren't they?" she added quietly. "You would need very powerful people to protect them."

Loki stiffened. There was a logical flow to Jane's thoughts. He didn't like where it was headed. "There are some groups that could do it," he interjected snidely, "But I can't imagine that they would protect anyone _for _me. I can't see them believing they owe me any favours."

There was a long pause, and Loki hoped it meant he had diverted her from her intended train of thought. Unfortunately, she seemed to be rather obstinate today. It wasn't enough to let go of the jotun issue, she was apparently also going to press…

"The Avengers could do it, you know," she said quietly. "And they might not do it for you, but they would certainly protect innocent young women _from _you."

It's takes a moment for him to fully understand what Jane has suggested, simply because it seems out of character for her. Lies and deceit, using enemies to one's advantage... that such a thing is possible suggests only one conclusion: the universe _is _listening to him. Apparently, it is on his side and is learning something from him, finally. And Jane, interestingly, is apparently his student in more than just magic.


	25. Chapter 25

Things feel blurred. Jane has absolutely no idea where they are and, truthfully, the world seems to lag when she turns her aching head. Whatever she's been hit with had been potent and its making it difficult for her to think. She knows that something important has happened and from the way Loki is glaring at her with daggers in his eyes, she suspects she's finally let her mouth run away from her. She tastes the words on her tongue. She's definitely brought up his least favourite topic: him. Which means she needs to do damage control, except that its really, really hard to focus and play nice when her head feels like it is about to split open.

"Why does my head hurt like hell?" she finally blurts. It's a pathetic attempt to change the topic, but its true, and she really wants to remember why she feels like this. Fractured images cross her mind and Jane shakes her head. She feels vaguely dirty, like she's been somewhere she doesn't really approve of and seen things she'd rather not recall. Loki's eyes are still hard and closed off and the whole situation is just making her angry now. "Why do I seem to recall being in a strip joint?" she exclaims, stamping a heeled foot slightly. Her pride is injured and she's caused trouble that she can't remember and she's more than a little disappointed in Loki right now. The idea that the gulf between them might be so wide that he doesn't even feel a need to fill her in on whatever has just happened stings.

He turns his head from her, ignoring her yet again in his haughty, arrogant way. Jane almost wishes that he would get angry at her instead. This reaction of his dumps ice water on whatever fires of rage or frustration she's stoked against him. She'd rather be a toy or a pawn than mean nothing to him at all, and its an admittance that she hates herself for. She swallows hard, willing him to look at her and just let go of whatever she's foolishly babbled on about. Moments pass slowly, and she aches inside, unable to cope with his silence. "Loki?" she prompts, hating herself a little more for how meek and pathetic she truly sounds.

It takes him a long time to turn and acknowledge her and even longer to speak, and when he does, Jane can tell that he's leaving things out. "Embra and Bryn are presently performing in an adult entertainment situation," he tells her, his expression flat, "I suspect it was rather overwhelming for you."

Jane bites her lip. There is more going on than her being overwhelmed. She can barely stand up straight and she feels faintly dehydrated. She has no idea how much time she has lost or what has happened to her during it. The soft flesh in the angle of her elbow feels bruised. He's purposefully leavings things out. It's probably punishment for whatever she said about him being not-actually Asgardian. It's moments like this that force Jane to remember that Loki is a monster and that he prefers to understand himself in that way.

"I feel like I'm missing things," she says quietly, the desire to fish for more information already ebbing out of her. She is tired, and he is what he is. She has no power to change him. When his arms curl around her possessively, she doesn't even question how she has gotten back into his embrace, choosing instead to simply linger within it. Everything hurts, and she doesn't just mean physically.

Even like this though, full of hollow self-recrimination and defeat, Jane still can't stop her brain from working away at the problems they face. She recalls the raven and the conversation that now feels a thousand years old. In vague, half-remembrance, she can see two young women with shockingly innocent eyes. Embra and Bryn, she thinks, wondering at what possible subterfuge could have given anyone cause to leave two creatures with names like those in Loki's care. There are a hundred people she would trust to look after young and inexperienced alien girls. Loki doesn't rank among the top thousand.

Which can only mean that things are hanging in a painfully fragile balance. Loki is already stretched too thin, and if these two girls have been causing him a headache, she can only imagine how much more he could accomplish if he didn't have to worry about them. There is a solution to this, just as there is a solution to getting the protection they will need to open bridges here and on Asgard. Jane sees it, tastes it, understands that this must be inevitable. After all, it is Thor who has been locked into dungeons by this ridiculous Empress and he has friends here on Earth.

"You said," Jane says carefully, knowing she is on thin ice already, "That you can't keep watching them and get the negotiations done too." Loki sighs quietly, adjusting his arms around her and burrowing his face into her hair. He nods against her head. There is something in this moment that fills Jane with pain. He _needs_ her, so much more than he even lets himself acknowledge. And, if she understands any of this, the fate of the entire universe is resting on his shoulders. If he were truly evil, certainly he would have run and saved himself, wouldn't he? Jane channels the emotions that grip her heart into making herself convincing. He cannot suspect that she's considered this option before.

"The Empress, she's watching?" Jane questioned aloud, careful to ensure that her tone suggested deep thought and consideration, "So someone needs to watch them." Jane struggles to conjure up their faces in her mind. She's flooded with a sudden, inexplicable urge to protect these girls, and it gives her words more feeling than she had originally set out with, "They can't stay where they are… they're teenagers!"

Loki leans back slightly, loosening his grip upon her to gaze down her with amused eyes. "The equivalent of, yes," he admits, the shadow of a smirk telling Jane that whatever this protective feeling is, its probably rooted in whatever events she can't quite remember. "Are you offering?" he drawls, as if to dismiss her and whatever ideas she might concoct. His tone suggests the sort of tolerance one feels for the drunk or drugged, and Jane finally lets herself acknowledge that the pain in her head is accompanied by the taste of magic in her mouth.

Her eyes drop to the pocket of his suit jacket. Her fingers flex against the fabric beneath them. "They're very powerful, aren't they?" she hears herself say quietly. They might be just girls, but they are from other worlds. It only reinforces her belief. The two alien girls should not be running wild across Earth's surface. There's just too much at stake. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the logic of her argument flow forth, "You would need very powerful people to protect them."

She feels his body stiffen against her. He's already stressed and feeling icy towards her, no matter the tenderness and need in his embrace just a moment ago. He's smarter than she is and Jane expects him to see through her careful construction of arguments to the ruse that lies beneath them. She's trying to make the obvious solution more palatable, but it is entirely possible that nothing could make him seek aid from his enemies.

"There are some groups that could do it," he snaps, his tone bordering on vicious, "But I can't imagine that they would protect anyone _for _me. I can't see them believing they owe me any favours."

The moment is tense. Jane knows she could keep trying to herd him towards the obvious solution, straining against her own blunt nature, or she could just say the words that will bind her fate to his. She hates herself for having come up with the idea. She has almost zero faith in her ability to actually pull it off. She knows that her idea will put her directly in the centre of a wasp's nest, and that it wouldn't take much for said wasps to turn against her. But she says the words anyway, "The Avengers could do it, you know. And they might not do it for you, but they would certainly protect innocent young women _from _you."

It's a leap into the abyss, because he hates them. They are the cause of one of his greatest failures. It's also the perfect plan for a god of mischief and chaos. Manipulating the hatred and suspicion of one's enemies into a tool for accomplishing one's own ends? It's brilliant. It's perfectly him. He won't be able to resist it. Especially since he can reveal himself as their puppet master when it has all unfolded. It's his chance to one-up them and reclaim his superiority.

His eyes flash with emotion. Jane sees it all and her breath catches on the awe and respect that he shows to her in the moment before he sweeps her off her feet and twirls her through the air and closer to him. "You are brilliant, Jane Foster," he whispers across her lips in the second before he captures them. She doesn't think he knows that he's tearing her heart apart. Tearing her very being apart, really. Though it is entirely possible that he is aware that he is rebuilding her in his own image.

* * *

The past twenty-four hours have gone by in a blur and Jane feels absolutely sick to her stomach. She sits quietly in a waiting room now, her ankles crossed and her hands a tangled, writhing mass in her lap. If she turns her head, she'll be able to see Embra, with her dark hair and mocha-toned skin, leaning across the poor male assistant's desk. He seems to be babbling incoherently and Jane can't quite blame him. Embra exudes confidence and sexuality and a saucy personality that sparkles and snaps without warning. Bryn, for all her fair, blonde-haired beauty, is much more demure. Her blue eyes hover on Embra protectively and uncertainly all at once. The pair have not made Jane's life easy since Loki deposited them at her door a mere fourteen hours earlier.

He wasted no time throwing her plan into action, taking her back to Puente Antiguo without preamble and leaving her there without a second glance. Ten hours passed without sleep as she grappled with the ramifications of her idea. Ten hours of regret and fear and guilt and apprehension. Ten hours that had left her about ready to crumple into an exhausted ball of tension and terror. She should have spent the time sleeping. Loki had things to do and people to meet. Briefing Embra and Bryn was apparently her job. As was getting them to New York. After all, he told her with a bitter smirk, "Isn't this exactly what Thor would have done?"

Jane had stared at him helplessly, accepting the truth of the statement. Dumping two strangers in need of protection on her doorstep probably was the sort of thing Thor would do. She understood the need for things to look convincing. She also understood the weight in Loki's expression. She would be no better off with Thor than she was with him, his eyes told her, daring her to disagree. It was a challenge to live down to his expectations, though Jane couldn't tell whether he was aware of it. It seemed to her that he should know by now that she is his.

Jane is catapulted out of her thoughts when a pair of doors swings casually open. It's the wrong pair, for her purposes, seeing as it's the one leading into the waiting area, but they have been waiting for what seems to be an interminably long time and any change is preferable to the continued mental recitation of the lies she must tell to survive this.

The man who has entered is handsome in a very all-American way, a fact that Jane notices only after realizing that both Embra and Bryn's eyes have drawn towards him in rather appraising ways. To her, he looks a bit worn out. The brown leather jacket he wears seems to have been worn into comfortable smoothness and his sandy brown hair is tousled in a careless way. His face searches the room with open, earnest eyes, and Jane feels a momentary pity for him. Embra looks about ready to pounce, her previous flirtation with the assistant already forgotten.

"And _who_ are _you_?" Embra purrs, rising from the desk to stalk closer to the helpless man. Jane sighs quietly, raising one hand to her face in embarrassment. This same stunt had been pulled on no less than four attractive men since they had arrived in New York City. It was already getting old.

To her surprise, however, the man pays Embra little attention. "Rogers," he replies distractedly, his eyes settling squarely on Jane. He tosses a questioning glance at the assistant, who looks rather confused and bereft by this point, and turns his gaze back to Jane.

He approaches her slowly, one finger raised in supposition and a curious look on his face. "I know you," he says quietly, his voice certain and strong, "You're Dr. Jane Foster. I've seen your picture."

Jane looks up blankly at the man. She can't imagine that she is anywhere close to important enough to have her picture on file anywhere. Unless, of course, the man is some sort of SHIELD agent… it takes Jane a moment to remember that he has, in fact, mentioned his name. "Wait," she murmurs, pausing in disbelief, "_Steve_ Rogers? As in, Captain America?"

If Jane's voice is a squeak, Steve Rogers is enough of a gentleman to ignore the fact. His face erupts in a genuine smile that seems to radiate warmth as he extends a hand to Jane. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Foster," he tells her in a voice that rings with honest intent and sincerity.

Jane stares at his offered hand for a moment longer than necessary. There is a whispering Chinook breeze wandering through the iced-over parts of her brain responsible for social interactions. She's forgotten that people can be earnest and kind. And polite. Which might just be a personal weakness. Jane realizes she's gaping and grabs hold of his offered hand in the same awkward instant. "The pleasure is all mine!" she says just a little too fast. "You're a hero!" she exclaims, wincing at her inability to stop talking as she keeps an almost mechanical hold on his hand, "Please call me Jane. No one calls me Doctor."

He laughs, a sound that sweeps good-naturedly through the room, softening the critical glare Embra has pinned on her and causing Bryn to lean forward in her seat just a little. "I'm flattered that I can impress Thor's girlfriend," he admits in a humble way, freeing his hand from Jane's grasp just a second before her muscles go slack in shock.

There's an awkward silence in which Jane can feel Embra and Bryn exchange a judgmental look behind Steve Roger's back. The assistant behind the desk is suddenly looking extremely alarmed, his eyes almost comically wide as he snatches up a phone and begins speaking into it rapid, hushed tones. Jane swallows against the almost painful lump in her throat. "Is that… how people know me?" she manages to choke out. "Is that… what he said?"

And if her question has a hint of hysteric despair to it, she hopes that everyone will quietly ignore it, because she can't quite cope with the fact that The Avengers might just believe she is dating Thor, or that he might have been the one to lead them to such a conclusion. Not when he didn't stop to visit her, or call her, or give her any sort of sign that she had any place in his life. The idea that there might be something or might have been something once was one that filled her with guilt. Would they all smile at her this openly and honestly, believing that she was loved and in love with Thor, when all the while she felt like her heart might as well have an accompanying certificate of ownership with Loki's signature on the line?

If there is conflict in her expression, it goes unmentioned. Rogers lets his smile soften, obviously sympathetic to her reaction. "Well," he looks at her a bit rueful, "He didn't say it. But he didn't really need to either. The way he worried about you was enough."

The dagger in Jane's gut twists painfully. "Oh," she breathes, smiling wanly in an attempt to seem pleased. "He…" she pauses, cutting off the words that would destroy their cover story, "Never said," she finishes instead. If her tone sounds displeased, let them think its because she has always felt unrequited. It was true once, after all.

The smile Rogers has worn slips away and Jane sees a familiar pain in his eyes. There's an unspoken acceptance in his gaze that tells her that he's let love pass him by to protect others before. It's Thor's presumed actions that he empathizes with, not the cruel hurt of taking away someone else's choice. "What brings you to New York, Doctor Foster?" he asks finally, patiently ignoring the frantic machinations of the assistant in the background.

Jane smiles, "I had a visit from Thor," she says smoothly, if a bit bitterly. "May I introduce you to Embra, the younger sister of the Empress of Muspell, and Bryn, a Vanir princess?"

Rogers now looks at the two seemingly-young women who have been watching him like a hawk during the entire exchange. His expression has shifted again into something different, something both suspicious and protective all at once. As if he can read Jane's mind, he has already surmised the only reason alien royalty might be deposited on Earth's doorstep. "They're in trouble?" he asks in a sideways way, as if seeking confirmation from a senior officer before addressing civilians. It isn't the first time his military past haunts his habits.

Jane nods slowly, unwillingly, stretching the moment until Rogers makes proper eye contact with her. It's important for this next part to be perfect. It's the only thing Loki has made her practice for him. _Eyes can give it all away_, Jane thinks in his voice, or perhaps she hears it. She would like to think that he is watching her from somewhere, ready to swoop in if she needs him. She doubts it though, relying instead on only herself for this.

She stretches the syllables of his name so that it sounds unfamiliar on her tongue. In this moment, it tastes like fear and suspicion and unwanting. "Loki," she begins, the moment catching in the widening of Rogers' eyes and flaring of his nostrils. She doesn't need to finish the sentence or the thought.

Instead, the double doors she has waited for three hours to open are flung wide to reveal a very unhappy Tony Stark who has no trouble sounding demanding, "_Who _what now?"


	26. Chapter 26

Jane had seen Tony Stark before, obviously. The man's face had been on the cover of pretty much every magazine out there at one point or another, whether for his wealth, his personal life, or for his advances in science and technology. Never one to be impressed by glossy visuals at the check-out line, Jane had assumed that the piercing gaze and general aura of fierceness was the product of Photoshop.

It isn't so.

Dramatic entrance complete, he levels that challenging stare that Jane recognizes from the magazines onto her, daring her to complete the sentence that she hadn't actually thought she'd need to complete. "Well?" he demands, "Are you going to finish that thought?"

On the spot, overwhelmed, and terrified, Jane can only stare at Stark like a deer caught in headlights. Luckily, she isn't completely alone.

"Excuse me," Embra cuts in, her eyes flashing dangerously as she steps up to Tony Stark, leveling her own dark eyes onto him, "I'm starting to feel like I'm not the centre of attention here, and that's a problem for me." Arms crossed in a way that accentuates the low-cut neckline of the bustier-cut, black mini dress she wore despite Jane's objections, the seemingly teenaged girl stands toe-to-toe with one of Earth's most powerful men. Jane supposes he must like the view, because his eyes drag slowly up and down Embra's figure before settling on her face, which has set into a discontented pout.

"And you are?" he prompts, his tone only fractionally less abrupt, though curiosity colours it.

"Second daughter of Surtur the Destroyer, First Emperor of Muspellheim and lord of darkness eternal; sister to Phyre the Wicked, Reigning Empress of Muspellheim," she rattles off the condensed list of titles with ease as she feigns a blistering smile, "But you may call me Embra, Princess of Muspell."

For a moment, Stark seems to stare through her. His eyes flash to the second young female, Bryn, who can barely meet his gaze and smiles only weakly. For a moment, a calculating expression crosses his features as his eyes slide over Jane. "So you're friends of Thor, then?" he says, addressing Embra even before his gaze falls fully back upon her.

"In a manner of speaking," she spits back. "Now aren't you going to offer me a drink?"

"Of course I am," he gestures into his office, "I hope you like scotch."

"No," Embra smirks, "_You_ hope I like scotch."

"Oh brother," Jane hears herself mutter, earning her a sympathetic look from Rogers who rather gallantly offers a hand to help her up from the seat she's been occupying for the better part of the afternoon. Jane shakes her head, grateful for the gesture, but embarrassed by it nonetheless. She is already knee-deep in the process of deceiving these men, these heroes of Earth. She can't quite stomach pretending to be a lady on top of it.

He shrugs at her, turning to offer the hand to Bryn instead. Bright eyes gaze up into his as she accepts. In the fourteen or so hours that Jane has actually known the two fledgling goddess-types, she has come to realize that of the two, Bryn is the one who stirs up the least trouble. It doesn't make her harmless though. Most eyes are drawn to Embra. The fact that a handsome man like Steve Rogers sees Bryn at all is one that will likely lead to nothing good.

Which is, unfortunately for Jane, not an undesirable outcome. She has spent the past fourteen hours convincing the two girls that visiting the Avengers is an excellent idea and that pretending to have been brought by Thor, rather than Loki, is their ticket in. Into what exactly, Jane has been vague. But she has promised parties and handsome men and exciting adventures, gesturing vaguely to Internet articles and news reports about the group. The girls have seized onto it with all the infectious energy of sorority sisters, falling in line only upon seeing photos of these exact men and agreeing to the subterfuge only after torturous laughter over the fact that their so-called chaperone once failed to take over this very planet, having been defeated by the very people they were about to go befriend.

She's still in a tricky position. The girls need to stay somewhat happy to keep their cover going. Their fear of Loki is rather eroded at this point, after all. Jane sighs and willingly closes her eyes to the blatant moment of discovery that is happening in between the two pairs of blue eyes that are lingering for just a moment too long in the waiting room behind her. She feels vaguely nauseous. At least Captain America is rumoured to be single.

Whatever is happening in front of her, however, is hard to ignore. Embra is smirking, sharp teeth visible as her lips hover over the lip of a rocks glass filled with scotch, and Stark seems to be somewhat riveted to the scene. Her tail twitches impatiently, drawing his attention away from her dangerously red lips. "You have a tail," he remarks, sounding surprisingly stupid for a genius, in Jane's opinion.

"She's a fire demon," Jane hears herself say, irritation flooding her voice, "What exactly do you expect?"

She sounds harsh even in her own ears, and she isn't surprised that Embra gives her a dirty look or that Stark looks confused by her. His eyes don't focus on her, however, settling onto a space behind and above her.

"Thor didn't visit her after the thing with Loki," Rogers offers from behind her and Jane knows now just where Stark's eyes went.

She feels a swirl of rage rise up within her gut, bile-like and nasty. Accompanying the emotion is the reassuring swell of magic around her, drawn in by her own feelings. She pull it inwards like a warm blanket. "It really doesn't matter what Thor did," she retorts, an uncharacteristic wobble in her voice. She knows its her nerves. She hopes they assume its her broken heart.

"Doesn't it?" Stark challenges her, his eyes surprisingly kind despite the question. "I'm assuming that this current situation," he gestures around the room with a glass of scotch, "Is his doing, after all?"

Jane smiles weakly, feeling uncannily out of her depth. The whole thing is going just fine, from an objective view. It just feels like a disaster.

"Here, Doctor Foster," Rogers supplies, moving from behind her to pull out a chair for her.

"It's just Jane," she protests quietly, settling into the chair anyway, even as Stark seems to get comfortable half-perched on the edge of the massive wood desk that dominates the room. Embra stands her ground in front of the desk, her eyes sparking displeasure as the attention is dragged back to Jane.

Jane sighs, "Yesterday," she begins, "Thor showed up, with these two…"

"Really, Doctor Foster?" Stark interrupts, a disbelieving look on his features, "I _am_ a scientist."

Jane really smiles at that, because she has prepared this. The official statement is written in her mind as surely as her journal kept track of the first time Asgardians had fallen into life.

"This instance was," Jane pauses for effect, "Strange. Unlike the previous times I've encountered Thor, there was no atmospheric disturbance, no spike in energy readings, nothing to suggest the use of an Einstein-Rosen Bridge. But," she raises her finger knowingly, "I've understood that none of those things accompanied his last appearance on Earth either."

Stark shares a knowing look with Rogers overtop of her head, and Jane already knows she is going to find this habit of Stark's annoying. "There was one thing," he says, a bit grandly, as if he's trying to catch out her lie.

Jane reminds herself that there's been nothing yet to give away the game. If she keeps it cool, this will all work. "A thunder storm," she finishes for him, eyes locked. "Not even that this time. But he seemed different. Rushed. And worried."

"Asgard is under attack," Embra adds airily, swirling the ice in her glass with nonchalance. "My sister and I were there at the time," she adds quietly, her eyes meeting Jane's. There's a sick feeling in the pit of Jane's stomach. She asked Embra to stay quiet during this part, and she isn't at all certain what she's intending to add to the conversation.

"Negotiating a marriage agreement," Embra finishes, taking a small sip from the glass. There's pity in her eyes, and Jane feels a roaring in her ears. There's something in Embra's expression that tells her that the girl isn't lying. Something sad that screams at Jane in warning. She swallows hard, her throat constricting against itself.

"You didn't know that," Stark concludes from her reaction. He rises slowly from the desk, "That's important then."

Embra nods. "My sister is seeking to unite kingdoms," she says quietly, in a tone that suggests disagreement, and apology.

"Well," Rogers says heavily from the space behind her, "That seems…" She can hear the pity in his voice and it grates on her nerves.

"Explains why Thor didn't drop by and visit, huh?" Stark adds with all the tact of a man who doesn't really care. Jane lifts her eyes to his and realizes that there's a hint of sympathy there, despite the words. It's as if the emotional life of this man has no connection to the things that leave his mouth.

"Right," she says weakly. There's something sitting wrong with all this, however, and its eating away at her. Because Phyre isn't some kindly empress trying to find a good husband, she's the evil bitch who seized Asgard while Thor was gone. And Thor is in a dungeon. It's the other brother who's running around free.

"So, basically," Stark takes control, ignoring the growingly distant look in Jane's expression, "Thor shows up, worried about these attacks on Asgard, leaves these two with you, to bring to us, so they're protected. Got that," he pauses, looking at Bryn. "Who are you?"

"Vanir princess," Bryn murmurs.

"Okay, so you're both leverage," Stark gestures at the two girls, still stolidly ignoring Jane and the emotional turmoil that must be written across her face, though in their minds its all for Thor. He paces now, the ice cubes in the glass tinkling as the scotch sloshes around. He turns on his heel very suddenly and leans down to stare Jane in the face, "I'm sorry, I know you're having one of those romcom crises where the heroine finds out her would-be boyfriend is engaged to an alien empress, but I really need you to focus right now. What exactly does Loki have to do with any of this? And think really hard, cause its kind of important."

Jane slaps Stark before she can fully process his words. She has a doctorate degree in astrophysics, and while she might not be a genius prodigy, she's not an idiot. She doesn't need Stark pretending that she is one.

There's a long moment where Stark's face hovers in her vision, his face turned from the shocked force of the hit. "Alright," he says quietly, "I probably deserved that. Still need you to focus."

"Loki didn't get locked up," she tells him with as little emotion in her voice as she can muster. "Wherever he is, it isn't Asgard."

"That's just great," Rogers mutters.

"And that's what we get for trusting in alien judgment," Stark finishes, a bitter smile on his lips. He looks at her, "Let me guess, he's the one heading the attacks?"

"In a manner of speaking," Jane replies, her eyes still glittering with fury and her tone choppy.

"And he just might be after these two," he concludes, pulling himself up and smiling at the two girls. "It's nice to meet you, ladies," he nods, "Welcome to Avengers Tower. Make yourselves comfortable."

Jane is too irritated to even groan when Embra winks shamelessly at Stark. This whole idea is just awful.

* * *

The rooms Stark gives them are nice. The nicest Jane's ever had, actually. The fact that there are condo-like suites built into several floors of the tower isn't new to her, she's seen bits and pieces of the entertainment reports about the building from back when it was just Stark's ego project. That this was the goal of her plan isn't beyond her either. She's just never taken the time to think about what a multi-billionaire's guest condos would look like.

The overarching theme is apparently open-concept. The kitchen, a work of art in steel and stone, flows seamlessly into a dining area and a living room larger than Jane's entire lab. She spends barely a moment lingering in the space, however, even as Embra begins raiding a tray of alcoholic beverages and Bryn settles onto a white leather chaise lounge with a sigh. "Why haven't we been anywhere like this before?" she asks Embra quietly, "This is _so_ much more like what I was expecting."

Shaking her head, Jane steps into the first bedroom she finds, closing the door and claiming the space as her own. She leans back against the door, closing her eyes and whimpering slightly as she wraps her arms around herself. She feels for the presence of magic around her and pulls on it slightly, taking comfort from it as she had earlier in Stark's office. She opens her eyes and takes in the space. The queen size bed seems to be made up in Egyptian cotton and the furniture is sparse, but looks expensive.

"Miss Foster," a lightly-accented voice inquires, "Are you feeling quite well? I can arrange for the procurement of…"

"Who's there?" Jane demands, spinning on her feet as she tries to size up every dark corner in the room. She's at her limits and desperately wants only to sleep.

"Please do not be alarmed, Miss," the voice continues, "I am JARVIS, a full-automated…"

Jane breathes in slowly, letting the computer's voice wash over. "Right," she says suddenly, realizing that the computer is still talking at her, "JARVIS. I need you to just stop talking." The computer goes silent. "I'm exhausted," she admits, "I just found out that its entirely possible that my alien boyfriend is in marriage negotiations with an empress who wants to rule the known worlds, and I'm not at home. I'm very not happy right now." She pauses for a long moment, a dawning horror in her mind, "Can you see me?"

"No, Miss," JARVIS replies. "However, there are motion detectors present throughout the Avengers Tower, and security cameras are installed in all public areas."

"But no one's going to be watching me change, or anything?" Jane prompted, intensely unsettled.

"No, Miss, but I must also remind you that I am an artificial intelligence. I cannot see as you would understand it…"

Jane interrupted the computer again, "If I ask you not to pay attention to my room, can you ignore it?"

"Miss, I cannot ignore data input. You may request that I not process or analyze the data, but it is collected."

Jane rubbed her forehead. "My head hurts," she whispers quietly to what should be an empty room.

"Miss, I will repeat the offer. Medication can be made available…"

"No," Jane exclaims, frustration in her voice. If her movements are tracked, if data is collected, then there is no real privacy here. She can't use her magic. She can't talk out loud as she sometimes does to help think. She'll have to be as careful and as wary here as she is anywhere else in the Tower.

"I just need sleep," she repeats quietly to the computer, as she tries very hard to get ready for bed, ignoring the fact that the computer is recording and processing the sounds of her changing her clothes and brushing her teeth.

As she lies down to sleep, Jane swallows hard against the painful lump in her throat that has been lingering ever since Embra's quiet admission in Tony Stark's office. Embra's sister, the empress who has taken Asgard for her own, who threw Thor into the dungeon, and is apparently (if one can believe talking ravens) is spying on them, had been negotiating marriage. It makes no sense to Jane. Why negotiate marriage when you already have control, except to legitimize it? In which case, Thor would be the logical choice. Perhaps he had turned her down and that was what had landed him in the dungeons…

But there is a niggling sense of fearful disbelief behind the feeling. Jane fights against it, but she isn't really capable of lying to herself. Loki is the one who is free. And he is married. He'd never said to who. She had made the assumption that the myths held truth. And omission is just another type of lie.

For the first time in many months, Jane finds herself questioning Loki's story. She had made her peace with it, had chosen to trust him despite all the odds. It's far too late to second-guess things now, and she tells herself this repeatedly. But those are not words that offer any sort of comfort.


	27. Chapter 27

When you get right down to it, Embra feels terribly sorry for Jane Foster. She and Bryn have spent just a few months on Midgard, but it has been long enough for her to learn just how stupid mortals can be when emotions are involved. She's also figured out three dozen ways to manipulate them. She still has room for sympathy, however.

It's been obvious since the moment she spotted Jane in Loki's arms that Jane is far too in love to make anything approaching a good decision. Even then, onstage and across the room, the worship Jane feels for Loki was palpable, and the possessive nature of his infatuation with her lingers still in the thumbprint-shaped bruise in the crook of Jane's elbow. What is surprising then, is that Loki has violated about twelve laws just to teach his mortal magic. Important laws with hefty consequences, though with what she knows now, she can understand Loki having a certain laissez faire attitude to it all. Invading Midgard and failing to take it would win him death in Muspell. She isn't certain what Asgard's court would condemn him to.

She does know that Asgard is tough on magic issues though. She herself has violated a number of their precepts since coming to Midgard. Of course, with Phyre as Empress, it hardly matters. Midgard doesn't know enough to make a case against her and that keeps any judgment firmly within the family.

None of it changes the fact that up until today, Jane has apparently had no idea that Loki is married to her sister. And it was something that Jane really ought to know. That it could be phrased in a way to make the whole "Thor thing" make sense was simply a bonus. Of course, Embra is used to things having bonuses. They do tend to when you are a daughter of one of the most powerful beings in the universe.

The unnerving thing then, is that she feels bad about it.

Of course, discovering that mousy, little Jane has apparently had something going with _both_ of Odin's sons (the fact that one was adopted notwithstanding) is an obvious point in Jane's favour. At first glance, she is really only another human. At second glance, she reveals herself to be so much more. And that something more is worth getting to know.

The trail of thought ultimately leads Embra to Jane Foster's bedroom. The woman sleeps in a tangled ball, evidently having suffered a restless night. There's a trace of pity in Embra's heart as she nears the sleeping creature. She is in so far over her head, and seems willing to go even farther. Perhaps its this courage, this spunk that sets her apart (the magic helps). Embra knows only one way to really understand another person, however. And that is to befriend them.

Which is why she slides soundlessly onto the edge of the bed Jane occupies, her dark eyes weighing the potential that Jane squanders. If she had her way, she could make Jane look like a goddess. She could even make Jane give her sister a run for her money. Though such a thing was probably unnecessary. It was clear to her that for whatever reason, Loki's eyes seemed to linger on Jane alone.

She leans across the duvet covered bundle that is Jane and coos into her ear, "Time to wake up, sleepyhead."

An amused smile drifts across her lips as Jane literally jerks from sleep, her brown eyes wide and confused as she stares up at her. Embra settles herself more comfortably onto the elbow she has dug into the gratuitous pile of pillows that line the head of the bed. "I feel a bit bad about yesterday," she continues, her fingers drawing lazy circles on the luxurious duvet cover that separates them. "I probably shouldn't have told you about my sister like that. It was perfect timing though, and you were in desperate need of some genuine emotion."

Jane blinks, apparently struggling to find her bearings. It's entirely possible that a woman like Jane had never woken up to another woman. She didn't seem like the type to have many female friends, or many friends at all, really. The expression on her face tells Embra that Jane is entirely uncomfortable. From the moment Loki had left them on her doorstep, muttered threats and grimaces the only real explanation offered, Jane has seemed to anticipated a role not unlike a nursemaid. It's amusing, considering that she's barely seen a few decades, while she and Bryn have lived through centuries of life. It's a fact that seems lost on Jane.

No, the truth is that Jane is a tiny, inexperienced human who needs her help far more than Embra needs her. In the space of a second, a few choice words would unravel whatever it is that Jane is trying to achieve here. It's a power that she seems to have decided to ignore that they have. Which is fine by Embra. There are far more entertaining things to her than power for its own sake.

"Can you forgive me?" Embra purrs, returning to her original train of thought. She uses a faint wisp of a glamour spell to ensure that her eyes look simply luminous in the dim light of the room.

"What time is it?" Jane interrupts, pulling herself into a sitting position that puts as much space between them as possible. It's a move that amuses Embra. For whatever reason, Jane finds her threatening on some level.

"Around one," she replies lazily, waving a hand as if time is irrelevant. The human obsession with time is just one thing that eludes her understanding.

"One?" Jane chirps, "One in the afternoon?"

"Yup," Embra replies, popping the "p" and stretching the syllable far longer than necessary. This is evidently the moment to prove to Jane that her motives are simple. She wants Jane to enjoy life. It's something Jane ought to get used to, in any case. "So do you wanna go get manicures and have a margarita lunch?"

Once again, Jane is reduced to a blinking mass of confusion. For such an intelligent human, Jane lacks even simple social graces, and Embra is certain that is something that needs work. "I don't get manicures," the woman stutters, "I'm a scientist."

Embra rolls her eyes. There is, as far as she is concerned, absolutely nothing stopping scientists from getting manicures. Only the illusory idea of life not being long enough keeps humans from enjoying anything properly. They are always wrapped up in an urgency that defies any logic Embra embraces. It's a bad habit for Jane to keep it now.

Embra watches Jane for a quiet moment, letting the woman's brilliant mind whirl away at the possibilities. Her expression turns curious. "What on earth is a margarita lunch?" she asks finally.

Embra shakes her head sadly, "What is the point of living such a short time and on such an ugly world unless one gets manicures and enjoys margarita lunches?" She settles one hand on top of Jane's, "You're in our world now, Jane. You might as well enjoy it."

* * *

It takes convincing, but Jane has willingly submitted herself to the manicurist in Tony Stark's private spa. The woman, armed with a nail file and a collection of tiny, expensive-looking liquids, looks like she is thrilled with such a challenge (apparently Pepper Potts has perfect nails and a strict manicure regimen). Embra finds herself smiling at the sight of Jane with her fingertips soaking in a faint pink liquid, her lips curled into an expression of helpless confusion, even as she blathers on about some type of star that has a chemical signature akin to one of the solvents the manicurist is armed with. It's cute, in a sad and pathetic sort of way. The idea that Jane is a mistress of one of the more powerful beings in the universe is especially hard to understand in this moment.

Embra takes heart from it though. "On the bright side," she whispers sideways to Bryn, "If a human as strange as Jane can end up as a mistress, we've got pretty good chances at finding someone handsome and powerful to take advantage of too, right?"

Bryn bobs her head, her eyes staring off into a distant space. The trace of a smile lingers around her pink lips and Embra scowls. Apparently, her erstwhile brother-in-law isn't the only one capable of becoming infatuated with humans. It's ridiculous to Embra, how many people will surrender their happiness to something as functionally useless as _love_. There's so much more out there in the world to enjoy; hanging all of one's hopes and dreams on one, single, other person seems foolish. It seems like a recipe for heartache.

Which reminds her, Jane is taking things surprisingly well. Embra's scowl deepens. Is it possible that Jane is as prone to states of denial as the other humans she's met? Embra sweeps her arm against the variety of expensive product that sit on the counter in front of her with the carelessness of a petulant child. Her darks eyes dart from Bryn, with her dopey-eyed gaze, to Jane, who looks even more nervous as she quietly asks the manicurist if certain solutions are supposed to burn. It may have been her idea to come to Midgard, but her sister seems to have turned the trip into an unofficial exile.

Embra closes her eyes, swallowing the bile that rises in her throat. She _misses_ the Burning Plains of Asikjad, and the strange, sly shadows of the soot imps. She misses her true form and she is getting tired of always feeling so cold and so solid. She doesn't understand Phyre's desire to leave Muspell, to conquer the known worlds, to create an empire across the stars. It has taken her many Midgardian months to come to the conclusion, but the truth is, everything Embra loves is in Muspell.

When her dark eyes open, they flash with fire. She knows now that Phyre cannot succeed in her plan. For entirely selfish reasons, she will hold her tongue for Loki and for Jane Foster. Embra wants to go home, and what she wants, she gets.

* * *

Embra tips the remaining contents of the champagne bottle into Jane Foster's glass, and waits until the giggling woman has finished half of it before she suggests tequila. If there is one thing Midgard has gotten right, it is alcohol. There's something about the way the liquid burns on its way down that reminds Embra of how she is _meant_ to felt (she is, in her truest form, a living flame). Of course, that same affinity means she burns off its usual effects far more quickly than her solid, flesh-and-blood-all-the-way-through companions.

She does feel it eventually, however, and she does doubles and triples to their singles to ensure she's right along with them when Jane and Bryn begin to giggle about the way Steve Rogers opens doors for them, like a _gentleman_. It is apparently hilarious, though not as amusing as the way Bryn has been pining after him since the first moment his blue eyes had met hers in the two weeks prior to this particular bender. She makes sure she mentions it.

There's a moment where Bryn looks like she wavers between drifting into a daydream or feeling hurt. Embra watches Jane's hand settle comfortingly onto Bryn's shoulder as she offers the princess a sympathetic smile. "_I _get it, Bryn," Jane says quietly, her warm brown eyes scolding Embra, "Not all of us are immune to love."

Embra rolls her eyes at that, "It's not _love_," she insists. "You've both fooled yourselves into believing that every good thing about your lives hinges on one person. One person who isn't you!" She shakes her head, "It's foolish. Completely dumb."

Jane, who seems thoroughly inebriated, sticks out her tongue at her in response. "And what would you suggest, instead?" she retorts, her eyes twinkling with the false joy inspired by the toppling of her inhibitions.

"I say fuck them," Embra says calmly, downing another shot without the assistance of the salt or lime that the other two depend on, "Fuck them, and if they're good, fuck them again." She keeps her tone light, smirking at them as she sets the shot glass down.

Jane shakes her head, awed by the bluntness of her response. It strikes Embra that Jane has had an exceptionally sheltered life, to be so floored by such a comment. "You're so bad!" she squeals.

Embra leans in, her eyes shining dangerously. "I'm not the one having an affair with the god of mischief, while pretending to be in love with his brother for the sake of appearances," she murmurs. The words are barely more than a breath, and she makes sure she clinks the glasses at her side. The computer will not hear a thing. JARVIS has learned to ignore their late-night drinking sessions. Just as Jane Foster has learned to give in to them. If only to numb her pain.

Jane gasps inaudibly, hurt flashing in her eyes as she struggles to hide her reaction. She's getting much better at acting. It only takes her a split second to swallow the feelings and turn her attention instead to pouring out another round of shots. "I'm sorry, Embra," she says in a tone that wobbles between mirth and spite, "My heart isn't made out of ice." She licks her hand, sprinkling salt onto her skin and offering the shaker to Bryn.

"Neither is mine," Embra bites back, snatching up her shot and downing it without pretense. She shakes her head as she watches Jane and Bryn twitch and gag on the fire in their mouths and throats, wincing as they both bite into slices of lime. "In fact," Embra hears herself say, the heat in her body finally rising as it combusts the alcohol she is so liberally pouring it, "Even in this form my heart remains living flame."

Jane stares at her for a long moment. "I keep forgetting you aren't human," she comments dopily, "Tell me more."

Embra smiles, she enjoys being the centre of attention and the high of the alcohol is finally seeping through to her, making everything feel comfortably ablaze. "In my true form," she says wistfully, "I'm literally a flame. I burn, constantly, forever. Learning to construct a solid-form body is one of the first things I learned, and one of the only things I actually learned from my father. It was Phyre who taught me how to do glamours, so I could look however I wished."

"When was all this?" Jane asks, her voice muddled in the contented way it got when she had drunk enough to actually think about the much longer life spans of non-humans without pain.

"About thirteen hundred years ago, if you go by Midgardian time," Embra admits, "It feels like just yesterday." She smiles, reminiscing feels wonderfully nice, particularly since she had finally admitted her desire to go home to herself. "Phyre hates her flame form," she whispers with a shake of her head, "She's always said that it makes her feel exposed."

Jane's attention is perfectly rapt and Embra can appreciate now what her brother-in-law might see in her. "Why would she feel that way?" Jane gasps, a hint of awed laughter in her voice, "How do you hurt a flame?"

Embra lets her laugh ring out through the room. "The same way you'd hurt any flame, Jane," she giggles, "You put it out!" Her smiles broadens at the wide-eyed gaze Jane gives her. "Even in this form," Embra continues, "My life could end if my heart got put out."

"Put out?" Jane breathes, horror in her expression.

"Like getting water dumped on it?" Bryn squeaks, her relative innocence written across her eyes.

Embra giggles again, "Sure, why not? Dump a bucket of water _inside_ _my chest_. Yes, Bryn, that would totally work." There's a long pause as Bryn returns to looking hurt and snubbed. It's Jane expression that brings Embra back to earth, so to speak.

"And your sister is the same?" Jane says quietly, her expression suddenly far more sober than Embra would like it to be.

"Yes," she admits, "But I really shouldn't have mentioned any of this." She worries her perfect, plump lower lip between her teeth. She isn't a genius with magic the way Phyre is, but she has a natural gift for mind-control. It's been a gift, all things considering. There's a moment where she wars against herself, loyalty to her sister (who has left her stranded) straining against the fondness she has developed for Bryn and Jane Foster.

It isn't enough. "I can't let you ever mention this," Embra says quietly, "To anyone." She swallows hard, realizing now just how big a weapon she's given away. The secret of the fragility of their life force is jealously guarded on Muspell. For her to have slipped is bad. Very bad. So she does the only thing she can, she weaves a spell that binds their voices against speaking her secret. They stare at her with wide eyes, only barely aware of the violation against themselves. "I'm sorry," she whispers, "Really, I am."


	28. Chapter 28

It takes Jane five days before she realizes that it is easier to submit to Embra's will than to fight it. She spends the first four days supplying reasons why an astrophysicist doesn't need manicures or designer clothes or make up or midnight drinking sessions with her brand new best friends. She even spends exactly twenty-three minutes explaining, in great detail and with the use of charts and diagrams, exactly why it is better that they _not_ be friends – she is, after all, at least somewhat responsible for them.

But Tony Stark leaves them with nearly free-run around the tower, which as it turns out, is host to a private spa, five chefs, no less than three artists' studios, a private movie theatre, a gym, and a private wardrobe advisor who takes one look at Embra and Bryn before swooning. Stark leaves them without supervision (apparently JARVIS will alert him and the Avengers should anything awful arise) and without further input. By day five, Jane is yearning for her lab, with its instruments and data and mathematical problems. She spends an entire afternoon wandering through the tower in search of the fabled Stark labs. She finds them, but is promptly turned away at the door. It's restricted, and the fact that she is apparently Thor's girlfriend isn't enough to convince lab staff that she should be given access. The frustration she feels only deepens when she discovers that Tony Stark is actually on a four-day media junket in Europe.

She arrives back at their rooms in a grey haze. She is stunned, really, that _this _is what Tony Stark considers secure, until she reconsiders the fact that they are, essentially, under house arrest in what is probably the world's most secure building. She's caught doubly off guard by an almost professional presentation conducted by Embra and Bryn in mocking tones and indecently short skirt suits on exactly how old they are, when placed against major events in Earth's history. They smile at her with sparkling eyes when they finish, hoping that she has gotten the point: they may look and act like teenagers, but poor emotional maturity does not completely cancel out nearly two thousand years of life experience. It's a point Jane concedes, along with her self-respect, as she drowns her troubled emotions in the champagne glass Embra forces into her hand.

By week three, she is letting Embra teach her the basics of glamours in the washroom while sipping martinis. She's never felt so young. Or so broken. She lets Embra tamper with her mind, locking words into her throat, knowing even through the buzz of alcohol that the girl has handed her something important, only to pull it away again. She can't quite find it in her to care.

She hasn't seen or heard from Loki in twenty-two days. There's a part of her on permanent meltdown, even though she knows that this was the plan. There's a second part that's painfully glad she hasn't had to face him. Not when she's so busy trying to keep the truth away from her own heart. _Loki is married to the enemy_. She won't accept a truth like that. She doesn't need to. Her entire life is lies.

Deep down, she is waiting for her life to return to normal. One day, at some point, all these things will end and she knows that she will end up back in the New Mexico desert. She will be older, greyer, harder, and far more tired, but there will be no place else to go. Eventually, the truth will unwind, Loki will leave her life for good, SHIELD will seize her research, and she will be consigned back to the desert, on the outside of everything. It is bittersweet, but it is also a comfort. No matter the destruction that is being dealt to her heart and soul now, she will eventually be forced to slink back into the familiarity of sand and starry nights. She hadn't had much to lose and there wasn't much to go back to, so in the end, it wouldn't matter all that much what she did with this strange, unimagined part of her life that was unfolding right now.

It was a melancholy message that she had repeated to herself through the first half of the fundraising luncheon JARVIS had suggested they attend, at the request of Tony Stark, who had apparently just remembered that they were still living in his suites. It seemed unbelievable to Jane that the man could simply forget guests from _another planet_ and could ignore the ridiculous tabs they were running, as Embra had her way with every service available. Even Pepper Potts, the capable woman who seemed to hold the real power in the place, hadn't paid them very much attention.

Pepper stood now, at the head table, thanking the various guests to the luncheon for their attendance, donations, and patience with Tony (who had apparently forgotten his own luncheon). Her expression seemed tired and pinched, her eyes grazing over the trio at the furthest edge of the room without even the barest recognition. It struck Jane that there must be more going on. They haven't even been bothered by SHIELD, except for one perfunctory visit by several lower level staff who took brief notes, shook Jane's hand, and gawked at Embra and Bryn for about fifteen minutes before getting a cell phone call that sent them scurrying out the door. Dully, she wonders if they are all too busy trying to track down Loki to understand that the actual threat _is_ the three women running a sizeable tab on tequila and champagne in the heart of the Avengers Tower.

Jane sighs heavily, catching Bryn's eyes. The girl places a delicate hand on top of Jane's and gives a gentle squeeze. At some point, the two girls have become her friends, and while Jane is nothing but grateful to them, she still has a sense of things being utterly surreal. They are, really, teaching her nothing but bad habits. She's too old to be acting like an immortal teenager. But she has nothing else, and Embra keeps telling her that a normal mortal's life isn't all that much to miss out on anyway.

Why she is believing an alien who's true form is a living flame and who's sister is trying to take over the universe above everything she has ever learned as a human being is beyond her. She suspects the blame should fall on Loki. She even plans to tell him so, if he ever shows up again.

A sudden crash fills the room. Jane's gaze darts back up, and she is shocked to find Pepper falling almost instantly into a crouch as the red-headed woman beside her drags her behind the table. Jane's eyes flash over to the picture windows, which now are nothing but shattered glass. In front of them, silhouetted by the midday sun, is the armoured figure of a man. By his feet crouch what appear to be mechanized dogs, though Jane is fairly certain that no live dog has ever looked quite so terrifying at these constructs of metal and wire.

"Cower in fear!" the figure cries, his voice evidently that of a madman, "The Huntsman arrives!"

The mech-dogs fly from his feet, smashing into tables and toppling chairs as their occupants bolt to their feet and make for the exits. At least, they do until more of the artificial beasts block their escape. For her part, Jane crumples to the floor alongside Embra and Bryn. Beneath the table, curtained by the starched white tablecloth, she notices that Embra is flexing her hand violently, sparks of flame flickering between her closing fingers as her eyes flash dangerously. "You can't," Jane whispers, her own hand fearlessly closing down upon Embra's. "We need to keep what you guys are quiet or else SHIELD will have a shit fit. You don't know how much trouble they can be!"

"Come on out, Stark!" the madman shrieks as he strides to the centre of the room, "It isn't like you to leave innocents in the path of danger… except when it is!"

Jane trembles in a mixture of fear and loathing. She suddenly regrets allowing herself to be lulled into Embra's world of self-indulgence and pampering. She's certain that weeks of endless leisure and drinking have dulled her brain. She's let herself forget that there was danger in all of this.

Jane sticks her head out from behind the white tablecloth that serves as their camouflage. With the exits cut off, small groups of people have followed their example and huddled themselves under the tables that haven't yet been knocked down by the angry pack of mechanized hounds. Wicked, metal teeth gnash violently at men and women in fine clothes, who tremble and retreat from the pacing not-beasts. Nearly everyone in the room is helpless, and Jane finds herself swallowing hard. For the first time in her life, she isn't.

As if to mirror Embra's movements, her hand flexes into a tight fist. She has taken to pulling magic in around her for comfort, and only dimly does she realize just how much she has drawn in since the luncheon was first attacked. All they need is a diversion, and the innocent people in the room could escape. Perhaps lives are worth far more than maintaining cover. Jane shakes her head, wondering what had happened to her that such an equation would begin with "perhaps" instead of with certainty.

In any case, she is not the one to make the first move. Instead, Tony finally sweeps in, a blur of red and gold that shines in the midday light that pours in through the shattered windows the man and his mechanized pack has burst in through. "Looking for me, Packmaster?" he demands, his tone mocking and light despite the obvious urgency of the situation.

Jane waits a total of nine seconds before she shoves the flat of her hand against Embra's back. "Get people out of here," she hisses, sending an accompanying glare to Bryn, who nods tightly from behind Embra's shoulder. The two girls hustle out from under the table and scramble over to the next one. Jane sees the flicker of a glamour spell being thrown up around them and accepts Embra's wisdom in it. As to herself, she turns back to where Tony is apparently coming to blows with the man, as a number of the mechanized dogs leap and bite at his feet and legs. It's almost impossible for him to fight both the dogs and the man, but to her relief, Jane sees a darkened figure slid into the room. Within a moment, a dog has fallen. The shaft of a wicked-looking arrow having travelled directly through the wires and computer chips that apparently make up their brains.

Jane pulls herself up, and flashes a glance to a woman trapped _beneath_ a table. Broken glass and ceramic surround her, and she seems desperately panicked. Jane doesn't think twice before running over to her, ignoring the glass that crunches under the heels Embra has taught her how to wear. She struggles to lift the table, drawing on the magic around her to give her more strength than she really ought to have. The fact seems lost on the woman, who squirms out and bolts for the door, just as one of the mech-dogs comes charging towards Jane.

Logically, Jane knew that her life had changed the moment she finally accepted that Thor wasn't a delusional guy she'd just happened across in the New Mexico desert. Everything with Loki was really the fall out of those three days. Events that changed the fabric of her life had been set in motion then. Even so, she had never really understood that her life had changed irrevocably. Not until the split second after she raises a trembling hand and shoots a two-foot icicle through the metallic skull of the mech-dog. For whatever reason, there is a moment's break in the action as she does so, and she feels three sets of eyes fall upon her with new weight. There's a terrified thrill that runs through her as she realizes that she will never again be "just" Thor's girlfriend.

"You're a mutant?" hisses the red-head, who seems to have materialized by her side now that Pepper Potts has had an opportunity to leave the room.

"Not exactly," Jane grinds out, biting down on her tongue as she swallows the fear that is more a product of having blown most of her cover than the second dog who seems to have decided she looks like a good target.

The mech-dog doesn't even reach her. The red-head has instead leveled a gun at it and blown out whatever circuitry rested behind its right eye sensor. There is a small explosion of sparks and the mech-dog falls to its side as stiffly as a broken computer tower.

"You will explain," the red-head snarls, grabbing her arm and pulling her from the room.

* * *

It is a full three hours later that Jane finds herself seated once again in Tony Stark's office. Embra and Bryn are nowhere to be seen, but then again, no one currently in said office would trust an alien. Jane shifts uncomfortably in the rather plain chair she has been seated on this time. There is a long silence, interrupted only by the clink of ice being dropped into a glass and the slosh of scotch being poured.

Jane takes the moment to consider the occupants of the room. Steve Rogers has leveled sympathetic eyes onto her. She and the girls have run into him a number of times since arriving at the tower, and he seems to have decided that they are all in need of protection. From his expression, she doesn't think that idea can be changed, even if she has withheld something about her own abilities. The other faces are less known to her. She suspects the red-head is the Black Widow. She's the only other woman in the room, and the only female Avenger than Jane is aware of. The darker figure from earlier has occupied a corner, his hawk-like eyes surveying the scene with a haunted expression. A surprisingly calm-looking man in a maroon dress shirt has settled thoughtfully onto the arm of a well-cushioned chair, taking a moment to push glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

After a sip and a sigh, Tony Stark finally turns to face her. "Want to catch us up here, Doctor Foster?" he asks, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm kinda thinking you left a few things out the first time around."

Jane shifts in the hard seat. She's not quite sure what they want to hear. She's not quite sure what she wants to tell them. All that she knows is that she should be terrified to be sitting in the middle of a small room that is filled with the most dangerous people on her planet, and that, strangely, she isn't. She feels oddly detached, like there's nothing left for her to lose, and so nothing that they can take.

"Tony," the man in the maroon shirt says finally, "Have you considered that maybe this isn't the way to…"

"Thank you, Bruce," Tony snips, cutting him off and taking a second sip of the scotch in his hand, "Your input has been duly noted and promptly ignored."

It takes Jane a moment and the red-head's eyes widen just barely when Bruce obviously huffs in annoyance. "Wait," she says quietly, "Bruce Banner? The author of 'Distant gamma radiation signals through space and their use in locating extra-planetary radiating sources' Bruce Banner?"

For a moment, the man looks surprised, then pleased. "Yes," he replies eagerly, "You're a scientist then?"

Jane blinks, fighting back a wave of feeling for the field that she hasn't been able to work in for the weeks she's been stranded in this tower. "Astrophysicist," she replies eagerly, "I was able to use your work to help create the sensors that first detected the Einstein-Rosen bridge phenomenon."

"She's Thor's girlfriend," Tony interjects, irritation colouring his tone.

"It's that kind of dismissal that had us all being taken by surprise in the middle of an attack," grates the red-head. "Once again your high-handedness could have cost us!" She shakes her head violently, "We need to know _everything_."

"And now you sound like your handlers," Tony counters dismissively.

"Hey!" the man in the corner snaps, "Just because you aren't reliable enough for SHIELD to…"

"Guys!" Bruce Banner snaps, even before Steve can add the words that so evidently dance upon his tongue, "Maybe we could, I don't know, focus?"

There's a momentary hush. For a sudden, delirious moment, Jane wants nothing more than to fall over laughing. She can understand why Loki hates them so. It's entirely unimaginable that a group of people so entirely different and seemingly divided could possibly come together and defeat a god. There is then, the sobering fact that they did. And that she is basically an agent of that god. That enemy. She takes a second to breath deeply. There's a confused moment where she could swear she tastes green on her tongue., as ridiculous as it sounds.

"I'm not Thor's girlfriend," she says firmly, if quietly. Every pair of eyes is suddenly riveted upon her. "Yes, I'm Jane Foster. Yes, I'm the one who found Thor in New Mexico. No, I'm not his girlfriend. How could I be?" she winces as the words tumble out of her. "He's basically immortal. A Norse _god _from _another world. _And if you believe the two… godlets that he dumped on my doorstep, he's in marriage negotiations with an _empress_."

"And he didn't visit her after the Loki thing," Steve adds, if unnecessarily.

The roomful of eyes looks considering and sympathetic all at once. Jane feels only an overwhelmingly tired feeling in her chest. They wouldn't be half as receptive if they knew that the obvious heartbreak in her tone is over Loki. She uses it anyway, pushing past the irony to spit out the rest of the story. It's more truth than fiction anyway. "Anyway," she continues, "That's not the point."

"No," the red-head agrees firmly. "The point is that you launched an _ice missile_ from your _hands_, and yet you claim you aren't a mutant."

Jane winces slightly. Put that way, it does sound like a rather large thing to have not mentioned. Truth then, to the rescue, "It's all part of what I didn't get a chance to say when I first got here." The room is silent, judging not just her as sideways glances are cast at Tony. He swirls the slowly melting ice in his scotch glass, nonchalantly taking another swig.

Jane takes a deep breath. "I know how to build a Bifrost," she says quietly. As she had expected, all hell breaks loose.

"How does she not have authorization into the labs?" Banner demands.

"That's impossible… I mean," Tony sputters over his scotch, "_I've_ looked at the math, and…"

"Well, imagine my surprise," the red-head begins, "Something Tony Stark couldn't figure out." The sarcasm drips with venom.

"A bifrost?" Steve parrots, his eyes searching the faces of those in the room.

The man in the corner remains silent, his eyes narrowing. "Knock, knock," Jane imagines he whispers.

"I can show you the math," Jane offers loudly, "But the math was never the problem." She turns to Steve, "The Bifrost is the name the Asgardians have for the Einstein-Rosen bridge they used to get here from Asgard. At least, it's the one that Thor used when I first met him. And the one his friends used. And that robot-thing Loki sent."

The name cuts the clamour in the room, and Jane feels the sharp eyes from the corner fasten even more tightly upon her. "It's the path between the stars," she says quietly, the longing in her voice painfully obvious. "Thor had to destroy the one Asgard has. And there's a whole… mountain of ridiculousness going on in Asgard right now… its why Embra and Bryn are here instead of there. So who knows when they're going to fix it?" Jane swallows hard, letting her emotions bleed through like Loki told her to. "So I figured, why don't we just build our own?"

Tony Stark is looking at her with furious eyes. "It still doesn't _work_," he grinds.

"And that doesn't explain the… hands," motions the red-head.

Jane sighs, "It works when you include magic in the calculations."

She loses them again.

* * *

Three days later, Jane is not only admitted into Stark Labs, she has her own private lab. She's papered the walls in the familiar equations, and Bruce and Tony have already spent over eight hours staring at them. Bruce to find truth, Tony to find fault. Despite the obvious fact that she's able to "shoot ice missiles from her hands," Tony has been almost surprisingly resistant to the idea. She suspects its partly to cover up for having ignored her for the month in which he could have gotten a bridge up and running, had he possessed her calculations.

Right now, her lab is quiet, even though it isn't empty. Bruce is standing close to the far wall, his lips moving slowly as he reads and re-reads the numbers, intermittently tapping his fingers against the high-tech data displays that instantly reveal the data referenced. Jane sits quietly, watching Bruce as his hand darts across the display. Windows open, close, and fly across the semi-transparent screen. "There's just one thing I don't get," he admits suddenly, his tone hushed. "I understand coming up with the variable. I understand that Thor explained that magic is, essentially, the exotic dark matter in the universe…"

Jane winces, she hates that she's had to put to Loki's words into Thor's mouth. It seems unfair. It seems cruel. She hates that she feels a small twinge of vindictive pleasure in doing it. She hates that she's so petty as to want some small vengeance for his lies and for the emptiness in her heart that belongs entirely to him despite everything.

"I don't understand how you went from the theoretical to the practical," Bruce concludes.

Jane bites her lip. She doesn't know either, at least in terms of her cover story. "Is that something you really need to know, right now?" she asks quietly, taking a gamble.

Bruce pulls away from the wall, closing the distance to look down at Jane with troubled eyes. "Why can't you tell us?" he volleys back.

"Because you won't like the answer," she replies with baited breath. For a long moment the earth seems to hold still.

Jane watches Bruce's lips thin, his eyes darting around the room before he leans in closer. "_I _won't press," he begins, "But the others? They won't let it go forever."

Jane smiles weakly. "Hopefully, I won't be waiting forever," she murmurs. A hint of bitterness seeps into her voice and Bruce nods, acknowledging her emotional pain, even as he misattributes it. She's glad he does. She's glad they all do. That little lie of omission is the only thing keeping her safe from the wrath of these, her new friends.


	29. Chapter 29

Kilketh Prime is a lush, subtropical planet circling what Jane Foster would know as an F Class star. That makes its sun larger and whiter than the one she knows. Circling the farthest edge of the Kilketh System is a binary pair of Class Y brown dwarfs. They are not visible from Kilketh Prime, and the cool, lifeless bodies are almost insignificant, except that they seem to run an interference pattern over the doors in space-time that Loki uses. They make travel to Kilketh Prime far less accessible than he would like, though he is loathe to admit that the doors control his travel rather than his own will controlling the doors.

The second problem with Kilketh Prime is its aging emperor. A little over three hundred years old, Emperor Kril't Tanreth is at a most venerable age for his species, and reacts with exceeding slowness to events. Even having been told of Asgard's troubles a little over five Midgardian months before, he has yet to come to a conclusion on a course of action. To Loki, it seems that he is willing to wait for the trouble to pass over them, particularly as the Asgardian diplomat (read Loki) seems to only appear once a Kilkethian cycle.

There is a solution to both problems, however, for Kril't Tanreth has only a single son, and he is a terribly ambitious creature. Kilkethians are mild empaths and Kril't Yantreth is a prodigy among them. It isn't really a surprise to Loki when he is summoned to the prince's private chambers and offered a deal he does not have time to refuse. His desperation and frustration have been bleeding from him like a siren call to an empathic shark like Yantreth, and it is only fitting that he take advantage of it. Loki knows he would, were he in Yantreth's place.

They, like most others, know him as Aldric Hoenirson, a low-ranking diplomat who was able to escape the attack on Asgard due to the sheer luck of having been on a minor diplomatic meeting to Gengax Five, yet it doesn't come as a surprise to Loki that Yantreth knows he is a killer. He smiles a bitter smile as he shakes the seven-fingered hand of the sly, green-skinned Kilkethian. Yantreth smiles back, needle-like teeth bared into what passes for an expression of civility on this forsaken planet. Yantreth tells him that all Asgardians are killers, that they live too long to understand that every race has a place in the stars, but that if Aldric does this, he will pledge their entire force to the fight. Better still Odin than an agent of Muspell.

Which is why Loki finds himself now in the Emperor's private study. The room has a soft glow born from the highly-polished wood it is carved directly out of. Kilketh Prime's trees are colossal and form the basis of the buildings. Kilkethians carve out rooms from the living wood the way dwarves mine them from rock. He finds himself taking superfluous mental notes, as if committing the entire world to memory. He tells himself it is not for Jane. He tells himself it is not to take his mind off of his end of Yantreth's terrible deal.

"Aldric Hoenirson," the voice cuts through the air. It is gentle and wise, only lightly hoarsened by age. "I suppose I should have expected my son would send you to do it. Shows a distinct lack of personal responsibility, but I suppose I am the one who raised him not to get his own hands dirty."

Loki pauses in the doorway. The Emperor's back is towards him, and there is a moment's lapse when he realizes that no number of shielding spells or invisibility glamours could hide the turmoil of emotions that lie under his traitorous skin. A Kilkethian could sense him in a heartbeat. It is the sort of mistake that could be deadly, the sort he could not afford. It was exactly the sort he was bound to make when he could not find a single night's rest anywhere across the stars.

He lets all pretense fall, along with the spells he has wrapped around himself. It is evident that Tanreth knows why he is here, and he does nothing to hide the poisoned dagger in his hand.

The old Kilkethian sighs, short horns bobbing in the silent air as the old man dips his head. "This… _war_ you propose," he begins haltingly, "It is not in our best interests. Asgard has rarely even taken notice of our kind. We owe you nothing."

"If you do nothing," Loki says in a tone so low he can barely hear his own words, "Then we will all fall. The Empress of Muspell is bent on dominion over all the known worlds."

The Emperor makes a gruff, snuffling sound that could be a cough or a huff. He leans slightly into his seat, causing it to spin round in a leisurely, clockwork manner. "And how would you know?" he demands, wide yellow eyes burning out from his narrow, green-skinned face.

Loki is silent. He has no time. Never any time. There is no reason to prolong the inevitable. He tightens his grip upon the knife.

The old man leans back, his delicate, insect-like fingers resting together as he looks over his assassin. "This would not be the first time you have killed a king," he concludes, "I would that my son had as much spine as you."

It might just be the first time a father has praised Loki, even if it is in such a backwards way. It confuses him, more than anything, for it is praise for the exact sort of action that on Asgard would demand justice and retribution. The hand holding the dagger falls ever so slightly, and he stares wordlessly at the Emperor.

The old alien laughs, a wheezing, almost painful sound. "It is Kilkethian tradition," he admits, dulled teeth peeking from behind his narrow lips, "For royalty to die by their family's hand, in some way or another. I had almost given up hope for Yantreth. I feared he might be the first to rule without ever getting royal blood upon his hands." He shakes his head. "It would not do," he continues. "If there is a natural death, the heir to the throne can be challenged."

Loki stares at the old man warily. He's never heard such heresy. He's also never cursed his own upbringing more. It has never dawned upon him that there might be worlds in which he would have never been inherently wrong.

"It's not like Asgard," the Emperor adds, shaking his head again, "Your Odin will never die. That son of his, the one with all the thunder," he laughs again, as if at some sort of joke, "He'll never live up to it! He'll rule while Odin sleeps, but never for eternity. And _his_ son… should he be fool enough to have any… will never rule at all." Yellow eyes regard him with solicitude, "You Asgardians are good at lying to yourselves, but immortality is no gift. And your kingdom is corrupt in its eternity. You say you will not interfere with other worlds, but just look at what you are doing here!"

Loki feels his expression darken. He has never heard such truth spoken about the Realm Eternal, has never dreamed that there might be worlds out there that hold so little regard for Odin and his rule. For a moment, his eyes drift closed and he wonders just how things may have gone had he reached out during his brief time as Asgard's king, rather than struggling so hard to find something within. He wonders why he fixated on Midgard and revenge, when he could have found success on another world.

"I'm not Asgardian," he says quietly. The words fill the room with a cold weight, even as the speaking of them aloud eases something within his heart.

"Is that so, Aldric Hoenirson?" the Emperor snuffs, "Do you really suppose that being Vanir is all that great a distinction?"

Loki shakes his head, "My name is not Aldric Hoenirson."

The Emperor stands. The Kilkethians are a tall race, but age has brought him down to a level with Loki. His yellow eyes gaze into Loki's own. "Then who are you?" he asks, his voice clear. "I would know my assassin before I die."

"Loki," he says quietly, taking the few steps that will close the distance between them, "Loki Laufeyson."

The old emperor's eyes come alight. "Jotun!" he exclaims in a breath. A delighted smile flashes across his ancient lips, "And the king you have slain was your own father!"

It's a fact that holds no mirth for Loki. Not when the act is so tainted by his own failure to admit that he can never be Asgardian. That he can never be Odin's son. A shadow crosses his face and his eyes narrow.

"You misunderstand!" the Emperor cries gleefully. "The Jotun crown passes down just as ours does! _You_ are the rightful Lord of Jotunheim!"

The dagger finds its place in the old man's heart, and Loki feels no remorse in twisting its barbed tip. The Emperor's words hold no joy for him, only fury. If this is true, then he has, however unwittingly, played directly into Odin's hands.

The Emperor surprises him, a blissful smile spread across his lips. "You will change things," he croaks, a gurgle of fluorescent blood bubbling up behind his lips. "I don't so much mind… dying… by your hand."

The body slumps to the floor in front of him inelegantly. It is quite possibly the first person Loki has ever dispatched who was actually joyful in their death. He fights the distinct urge to flee. He understands now that as the appointed assassin, his testimony will be needed to ensure that Yantreth gains his throne without contest. It is the only thing that keeps him rooted where he stands, waiting for guards to hone in on the screaming his emotions are doing for him.

He takes the opportunity to curse Odin.

* * *

There are ways to check in on people without projecting. They must have some magic and you need to have some idea of where they are, but you can reach out and sift through the matter and energy for the signature they leave in the fabric of space-time. It isn't much, but it is perhaps the one way that he can hold onto Jane without her knowing and giving anything away. If she needs him, she knows he is listening. One mentally projected word, and he will be there, ready to get them out. One word and he will be there.

But she doesn't call for him.

There are a dozen reasons for her to keep quiet, and a thousand for him to be happy that she is. If she were calling to him, if he were to waste time with her (more time… he has spent so much on her already, though he justifies it with needing her to be competent enough to create a Bifrost), then he will fall only further behind. Time may have different meaning for those who are immortal, but it still seems cruel to have left his… Frigga in dungeons for nearly half a Midgardian year. Jane's silence should be taken as a gift. It is an opportunity for him to put his priorities back into order. It is unfortunate then, that his priorities are even more confused than ever.

At the moment, he is lying still on a bed made of gold and sapphire, with sheets of woven moonlight. He can't pretend to be anyone but himself in Alfheim, and even in a state of crisis and secrecy, the elves are insistent upon protocol and niceties. The upside of this is that there are guards at every door, veiled in invisibility spells. Protection without any obvious statement. It is likely the safest he has been since before Thor's failed coronation. He still cannot sleep.

Eventually, exhaustion will force him into catching a few hours, and he knows he is somewhere on the edge of that. He has barely napped in two weeks. Without Jane… without Jane it is almost impossible to let down his guard enough to sleep. His mind screams with problems that need solving, with conspiracies and lies, with the halting realization that perhaps accepting being not-Asgardian is an improvement over the existence that he has lived thus far.

He has succeeded in securing seven alliances so far. He figures he needs ten or so, more if Alfheim reneges (they are terrified of Phyre). What he really needs is the Sifexen Empire to make peace with the Nerflex and agree to transport troops for the Gengaxians. Making that happen will be… difficult. But not impossible.

All this is just a smokescreen, however. What really worries him is what will happen when all this is over. He supposes it isn't healthy that he is half hoping he will not survive it. Saving the universe is shattering worlds, destroying his long-held beliefs about Asgard, and, though it should be so small a thing against the rest, has irrevocably altered Jane Foster's life. The last shouldn't matter. Yet sometimes, in moments like this when he should be desperately taking advantage of the safety to _sleep_, the last seems like the worst.

He wishes she would call for him.

He hates himself for it.

* * *

Loki does not want to be lord of the Jotun. He still can barely stomach the idea that he is one. Shaking off the magic Odin wrapped around him to make him seem Asgardian, to even bleed like an Asgardian, is something he is loathe to do, and not only because it is exceedingly difficult without some sort of stimulus to trigger it.

Why then, is he here? Of all the worlds, all the realms, all the possible sideways, backwards, upside down places he could find a way into, he has brought himself, purposefully, here. It is cold and dark and the light from its dim, dying star is barely enough to light the way across the icy wasteland. It is a desolate world with little to offer.

Ironic then, that this is the world he is rightfully king of. A pathetic, cold, dying world that he has every right to rule, despite having once tried to destroy it. If he were wise, he probably would not even be here. But Tanreth has put the idea into his head, and it one he cannot shake. If he cannot make peace with what he biologically is and cannot accept what he has been raised to be, then he will have to become something entirely new. It's an idea even more terrifying than facing the Jotun.

He trudges through the snow for what feels like hours. He lets the cold seep down through his pale skin, infiltrating his very bones. His hair hangs against his face in sheets of ice, the warm moisture of his breath having caught in it, then frozen almost instantly. His eye lashes have frozen shut several times already. He stills and pulls at the magic woven into his very skin.

Like a thread unraveling, the magic pulls out slowly, as if being removed stitch by stitch. He does this purposefully, memorizing the way the magic meshes his borrowed form with the true one that lies just underneath, or perhaps shifted by a quarter turn in dimensional space. Odin does things with magic that the universe rejects on principle, and it strikes Loki that half of his poor luck, his madness, his hurt, might just stem from the universe partly rejecting the magic that has been woven into his very being. It wouldn't be impossible to re-write it in better harmony. It's a thought that chills him further.

He feels different. As he probably should. He still feels like his height is off, but a final tug on the magic lacing his body seems to grant him an extra several feet. Still shorter than he should be, but the story was that he was too small to start with, wasn't it? He isn't ideal. He knows this already. Still, it is with a sick fascination that he traces toughened blue fingertips over the mishmash of scars across his skin. He can tell the story behind every one of them, and the idea fills him with a strange horror. The Aesir always heal. Apparently Jotun skin carries the scars for eternity. The idea that the Jotun skin has always been woven in with the Aesir drives an inexplicable urge to vomit… except that the Jotun apparently lack the ability to do so.

With slow, stiff movements, Loki pulls the cloak from his back. His connection to magic, to the exotic dark matter itself, as Jane would call it, remains unchanged. It feels closer and further away all at once, as he rolls his shoulders, uncertain about his place in relation to the power now that the magic Odin wove around him has been pulled away. He feels naked, and he waves away what is left of his Asgardian clothes because, why not?

Glowing red eyes meet the horizon line, a fierce determination written in them. Loki blinks, realizing rather suddenly that the stiff, short eye lashes of a Jotun could never freeze shut, that the toughened skin is unaffected by the stinging wind and snow. A ghost of a smile lifts thin, blue lips over fang-like teeth. Midgardian myth _had _painted him as a shape changer. Perhaps there is merit in such a thing.

* * *

He spends nearly a day striding across the snow-covered land. With Jotun eyes, he can see more, can feel more, can smell more. There is life on the planet, hidden to Aesir eyes. He can hear the rush of water far beneath his feet. Somewhere under the ice and snow, liquid water is moving somewhere. Until now, he has always believed that the Jotun lived in the cold stone and ice structures above. Faced with the bombardment of new information, he begins to wonder if the real planet is below the icy surface. It is possible that Jotunheim might be more like Svartalfheim, with the truth buried beneath.

Unlike the Realm Eternal, Jotunheim is a proper planet, rotating its weak sun. The days stretch long, however, as the planet does a lazy rotation slow enough to make a day last a small eternity and night an unending torture. Similarly, nightfall is an event that spreads shadows across the land in unhurried brushstrokes. It gives Loki more than enough warning to find shelter in the form of a small cave opening in the cliffs that have risen far overhead as he has successfully crossed the plains of ice and snow.

He spends a long time standing in the mouth of the cave, looking out across the bleak landscape. In this tougher skin, he can take the time to look and to see. There's an eerie beauty to the world that he has failed to grasp on previous visits. It is so much more than he has been willing to see. He lets his head fall, red eyes lingering still into the fall distance.

"Are you lost?" the words startle him, and he turns almost too quickly, his balance off in this taller, broader shape. He stares at the smaller creature before him. Like him, it is blue and bald. Unlike him, it is only about four feet tall and seems to wear something akin to a shift.

"I said, are you lost?" the young Jotun speaks more slowly, and while Loki is certain that he has never learned the Jotun language, the words make sense to his ears, even if the sounds themselves are as rough and jagged as the icy cliffs above them.

"I…am," he begins, uncertain if the words will come out in the right language. Somehow his tongue seems to know what it is doing, and words leave his mouth without anything more than instinct and magic flowing behind them. "Yes, I am," he repeats.

The young Jotun nods, "Then come in. Mother will know where you meant to go. Why were you crossing the surface though?"

Loki looks at the creature helplessly. The words confirm his suspicions, and he wants nothing more than to ask questions, but he's suddenly terrified of arousing the child's suspicions. He's never met a child Jotun. "It's a long story," he says finally, the words sounding like inelegant rocks in his mouth. It's an ugly language, but the sudden look of understanding in the young one's eyes suggest that it has nuances other languages have failed to capture.

Without pretense, the young one steps closer to him and takes his hand. "You've been away from home for a long time, haven't you?" she asks lightly, "I can tell. Those who have been away are always cold and broken. Mother says I should be thankful that I am a girl and can never be a warrior."

Loki stares down at the trusting grasp the young girl has on his hand. He suddenly realizes that he's not only seeing his first Jotun child, but also his first Jotun female. An entire race he had tried to destroy, without ever considering that there would be innocents. His blood ran even colder as the girl squeezed his hand lightly. "I'm glad," she continues, "I wouldn't want to be a warrior. It would hurt too much, to carry so much sadness inside your heart."

Loki swallows hard, wondering if Jotun produce tears. By the time the girl releases his hand, they have travelled down a long way from the tiny cave mouth. The cavern they walk into is alive with sound. Voices call out and echo across the vast space carved from ice and stone. Liquid water splashes throughout it all, and Loki can tell that the temperature is far warmer here than outside. When they turn a corner and the cavern opens fully before them, Loki finds his hand covering his face. There is an entire village spread out before him. It is just so much more than he can take.


	30. Chapter 30

_Before anything else, I want to thank all of you readers. This story just hit 100 follows and over 200 reviews... and it makes me love you all! To those of you who take the time to review - I just want to say thank you! Your words mean so much to me... and do play at least a small part in what happens in this story. Thank you all so much for reading and I hope you continue to enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it!_

* * *

He sits in front of a fire, the leaping flames mesmerizing him in a way they have failed to do since he was a child. Things look different now. Not just because he sees them through new eyes.

There is a piece of himself that has always been missing. It's a jagged gash that he has tried, even after discovering what that piece _should_ have been, to fill with the expectations of Asgard. He has tried so very hard, for so very long, to be someone he cannot be. The rules, ideas, and expectations of Asgard have been so deeply internalized, that even after rejecting Asgard (whether or not Asgard rejected him first is slowly becoming of less importance), he has still only been able to act in reaction to them.

Loki closes his red eyes. There is a peace falling around him now that has come far too late. He has spent only a few days in this village of the Jotun but he knows that there is nothing here for him but what might have been. It is a tragic thought, because the Jotun are nothing like what he has been taught to believe. They are not monsters. They are mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters. They are farmers and fishers and gifted herbalists, as impossible as that sounds. The geothermal heat of the planet's core fuels a strange kind of plant life no one on Asgard could even imagine. Not that they had apparently ever tried.

Jotun cannot cry, but if they could, he knows the tears would have drowned him. Regret and remorse flow from him, and he is terribly thankful that he has no need to return to Kilketh Prime. He suspects that emotions like this could cause a planetary depression.

It seems unreal to him, but the Jotun have accepted him with a strange, sad sympathy he cannot fathom. They do not ask him his name. They do not press him for information. Instead, they pass bowls of warm and shockingly delicious broth into his cold hands and hum words of comfort in their gravelly tones. He does not understand their actions. He does not understand them.

There is a long sigh from beside him and a squat form hunkers down upon the stone bench where he has sat for the better part of these few days. The fire he sits before seems to be a communal project, seated in the heart of the community. He has not slept, has barely moved, has only watched with muted amazement. The community has flowed around him, collecting him into their very heart and holding him still there, as if granting him the time and proximity he needs to heal the wounds to his soul that they can somehow feel and understand, when no one else in the entire span of the universe has.

"The warrior class," begins the voice beside him, "Is the price we pay to keep us safe and sheltered. Hearts so gentle cannot survive in the universe without a shield."

Loki turns his head, eyeing the interloper warily. The voice is old, rougher and hoarser than any others he has heard yet, which makes it reminiscent of the movement of mountains or, perhaps more fittingly, glaciers. Its owner is a surprisingly short Jotun, though the apparent age of the being might be partial cause of that. She, for it is a female, is clothed in more than most he has seen, though the jumble of cloth seems to mostly composed of pockets, evidently added as the need arose. And that need had apparently arisen often.

"There are no warriors here," Loki says quietly. It is the first he has said since little Onhana had led him into the warmth of the cavern and its village. The first he has said since the magnitude of his crimes had fully fallen upon him.

"They live above," the crone replies, "Except when they can bear no more." She shifts slightly, "Just as you have."

Loki stiffens. His entire existence has been made up of lies. They have dominated him, shaped him, been defined by him across worlds and realms and time. He cannot bear the pain of telling another. Not in this place.

"Oh, I know who you are," the aged one continues, her voice dropping to a soothing rumble. "I am the only one here who was alive to see the war with Asgard, so I am the only one to know just what Odin stole away."

For a moment, he is paralyzed. He is in terrible danger, he realizes suddenly. Perhaps his death awaits him, and he has still so much to do. So many things he must do to make amends. He hangs his head. None of them matter compared to this. He is a fool to even dream otherwise. The blood of these people; these innocent, guileless, warm people was nearly upon his hands. Odin's words ring hollowly through his memory. He wonders now, just how much Odin knows about the real Jotun. Worse still, what his motivations are in letting the lies linger on Asgardian tongues, if he knows that there is a bigger truth.

"It is not ours to judge."

The words cause him to choke in surprise. He stares at the old woman in shock. "How can you not?" he demands.

She sighs again. There are deep set wrinkles around her eyes that seem to almost bury her face in a terrible play of shadow and ancient secrets. "It is not our place," she repeats, "It is no one's place to cast such judgment upon another without knowing their truths and understanding how they may be different from one's own. Since none of us have such power, it cannot then be our place." Thin lips are nearly buried beneath the timelines written across her visage, but they tweak into the ghost of a rueful smile. "Leaders may try, may play at it. But even they know their petty rulings and punishments are formality. It is all fiction. The only true punishment for sin lies within the heart of the repentant."

"Spare me religion," Loki drawls dryly.

The crone laughs. "It isn't religion!" she cackles, "Religion stole the words!" She shakes her head, "It is feeling." The laughter fades. "It is why we strip our warriors of feeling. It is why their lives are stretched long and thin, wasting into eternity while they grow colder and emptier."

Loki watches her expression grow shadowed and sorrowful. "Why tell me this?" he whispers, "If you know who I am then…"

"Because you must understand the greater crime." A frail hand reaches into a deep pocket and withdraws a fragment of crystal. A purple spark plays within the mineral confines. Her eyes are drawn towards it as she holds it to his gaze. "Immortality," she says in a rushing sigh, "It is the gift of Asgard. The curse of our warriors. It is the ending of all progress. The closing of all hearts."

Loki watches her with troubled eyes. "What do you mean?" he demands quietly, an understated urgency in his words.

The old Jotun looks at him indulgently. "How old do you suppose these people are?" she gestures around her, eyes shining in the firelight. "How old do you suppose the average Jotun lives for? How many turns of the world?"

There is a trick in her words. Loki knows they live for an eternity. The same Laufey who met Odin upon the battlefield thousands of years ago was slain by his own hand only a little over a year before. The same Laufey who fathered him, though that is a thought he refuses to engage.

"Only a few hundred," she finishes for him.

There is a stalled second as Loki processes this alongside the wise woman's earlier admission. "What do you mean a few hundred?" he asks in a strained hush.

"Where it not for Odin," she says quietly, "No Jotun would live beyond a few hundred years." There is a long pause. "Our warriors, we curse them with it. For how else can they keep us safe? If the enemy is immortal, than so too must be our shield."

"Why is it a curse?" he hears himself ask, a pained note admitting that his heart already knows the truth.

The ghost-like smile returns to her expression, "You tell me, Loki Laufeyson, you tell me."

There has been iron in his heart, he suspects. Or perhaps ice, as ironic as that would sound. He is so weary, so full of tired emotion, so stunted with the idea that he is barely deemed a competent adult on Asgard, yet feels as if he has been alive forever. Understanding flashes through him. By nature, he should be beyond an old man, as ancient as the crone beside him. He swallows hard, the truth bitter on his tongue. "And you, old one?" he murmurs, "Just how long have you lived?"

"Long enough," she sighs, "But someone must also wield the magic in each village."

Loki nods quietly. "It hurts," he admits.

"It dulls," she agrees, "Over time, it all dulls. There is only so much one can feel in a life. Time spreads it thin." She closes her eyes, "But I have only a taste of it."

Loki wonders if a heart that is already broken can break.

* * *

He spends one more day with the Jotun before leaving the village as quietly as he arrived. That is, little Onhana, who first brought him down, accompanies him back to the surface along with her constant stream of childish banter. He doesn't say a word. Her small hand is tucked trustingly into his much larger, rougher one, and guilt and shame burn in his throat as he longs to cry for the beauty of her. There are greater forces at work in the universe than he has been willing to acknowledge. There are greater things than his own life, with its petty, selfish sorrows. He knows this now with a clarity that drives his footsteps even though existential anguish chokes him.

The little girl finally lets her hand slips from his. They stand at the mouth of the cave, and Loki casts one desperately sorrowful look back at her. "Goodbye, Warrior," she says quietly, "Try not to be so sad."

Loki gives her the ghost of a smile, finally able to ignore how ghastly he once believed the smile of a Jotun to be. "Goodbye, Onhana," he says quietly, branding her name and her memory across his memories, just in case he should ever forget that worlds and races and peoples are made up of individual souls, each more precious than the last. She smiles at him, all brightness and blueness and innocence, rocking lightly on the tips of her feet before darting back into the dark passage from which they came. Loki lets himself watch her disappear into the shadows before breathing deeply and turning to face the world outside.

Jotunheim looks back at him; a forbiddingly beautiful landscape of desolate loneliness. It is barren of colour, empty of life, and cold as the ice mask it wears. It's a perfect disguise for the fragile, warm life that lingers below the glaciers. A shield against the forces of the heavens that battered against them for millennia in retaliation against the greed and pride of their kings.

Red eyes burn back at the cold land. Loki does not want to be Lord of Jotunheim, but it is his responsibility nonetheless. This is the world that he began his life upon and these are the people he might have spent a lifetime or an eternity protecting. He cannot, or perhaps he will not (for it is a matter of choice), ever take the mantle or name but he swears here and now, upon his own life, that he will never be the reason Jotunheim goes to war. He will never be the cause of their suffering. Not ever again.

* * *

Until now, Loki has represented Asgard diplomatically. Sometimes it has been under a false name or even a false face, and sometimes under the name by which worlds and realms know him by. But Loki Odinson and Aldric Heonirson have been fighting a losing battle. As fate would have it, Loki is not the first to suffer Odin's lies or manipulations. The Jotuns are not the only race to have fought seemingly endless wars against Asgard. Entire galaxies are eager to see a power shift. There are many reasons to simply wait out Phyre's attempt at taking Asgard.

In some ways, Loki understands this. There's a part of him that has wanted to walk away since all of this began. He is angry at Odin himself. He has nothing to gain from Asgard being freed – in fact, might just have everything to lose. It would be far easier to run.

But he knows that Phyre does not have plans for peace. He knows her better than he'd like to, and he's seen the same weaknesses in her that he has seen in himself. She longs for power with a hunger that blinds her to consequences. She won't care how many suffer or die. She will watch worlds burn, simply because she will feel it is her right. He knows it with stark certainty, because he has done it himself, only with less conviction and poorer support.

There is only one way to unite hesitant forces: fear and a common enemy. If such a thing can work for the misfit heroes of Midgard, it can surely work for groups who haven't doubled as science experiments.

And isn't it terribly convenient, that Loki knows stories that could chill the coldest heart? Stories of a man so crazed that he is willing to make deals with the deepest, darkest voice of the Void. Stories of a man so desperate to shatter the truth of himself that he will attempt the genocide of an entire planet without even the shadow of a warning. Stories of a man who waged war against the most innocent and backwards world of them all, Midgard. And isn't it convenient that he just happens to be married to the similarly crazed and powerful Empress of Muspell?

There's a feral smile upon his thin lips as he stalks through the halls of the Grand Palace of Alfheim. His green cloak billows out behind him and sharply emerald eyes glitter beneath the sconces of elf light. His dark hair is so black it borders on blue. His teeth seem sharper. His skin is paler than ever. He has stitched himself back together on his own terms, with his own magic, with the bitter knowledge that he has never and will never be Asgardian. Nor is he Jotun, really. No, Loki Laufeyson is something entirely new and different. New and different and deadly and horrible.

Palace staff shrink back into the halls and hollows behind them as he sweeps past, madness and violence simmering tangibly around the edges of his magic-steeped being. Words die on flapping tongues as he approaches, and hushed whispers and murmurs of fear arise behind him. As he shoves into the diplomats' wing, he strides with growing purpose. Diplomats from a dozen worlds gaze at him with dumbstruck expressions. He flashes jagged, toothy grins towards them and they physically cringe.

Faces that later refuse to be recalled murmur terrible rumours into the diplomats' ears, and growing terror dawns across their faces, as they begin to comprehend the monster that has been lurking among them for untold months. Suspicions arise, cresting wave-like into subconscious minds. Alfheim had delegates at the wedding of the Empress of Muspell and Loki… Loki Laufeyson. The name sends chills down spines, and Loki revels in the feeling of truth spreading with the wildfire-power of lies. This whole time, the power has been his. He's merely had to surrender to himself.

He pulls a shockingly wicked, ebony dagger out of the air to his left. He brandishes it with the skill of nearly three thousand years of practice, all the while grinning like a madman. The light of inspired insanity shines from his eyes as he throws open the doors to the Royal Council Room.

"I just can't trust a ruler who'll spread her legs for anything that moves," the King of Alfheim says bitterly to a private advisor, a grimace upon his face. "I'm…" he looks up at Loki with an expression of wariness that softens for the moment before he notices the wicked wildness of Loki's appearance and the deadly, jagged-looking dagger in his hand.

"That's my wife you're talking about," Loki says, a twisted hint of glee in his voice. A nasty smirk spreads across his lips, even as he dives towards the King .

The King of Alfheim doesn't even have a moment to stutter a reply before the dagger comes down upon him. The shocked advisor stumbles back a few steps, screaming all the while for guards. Loki stands still for an artful moment, letting the King's silver blood drip from the dagger's pitch black blade. The King himself, crumpled to the floor as he is, stares up at him in shock. "Loki Odinson?," he gasps, his gold-tinged hands pulling away from his side to witness his own lifeblood smeared across his hands.

Loki's expression darkens. "Laufeyson," he corrects, leaning ever so slightly forward, "Think you I could hold any love for Odin after three millennia of lies?" Emerald eyes flash red, just in case there is any doubt. "Funny how Asgard will yet be my sanctuary," he leers, letting his attention fall idly to the silver blood that drips still from the dagger's blade.

The King's bright eyes harden. "You will pay for this treachery!" he shouts, even as guards burst into the room, heavy, armoured hands settling down upon Loki's own armoured shoulders.

The hands fall through thin air. The room is haunted by Loki's cruelest laughter.

In the space of days, Alfheim's wounded King has summoned a half dozen of their closest allies. Hours from their first meeting, a battle against Asgard's evil, upstart rulers is planned. From invisible heights, Loki laughs with the freedom of a dead man. He's got nothing left to lose now, and he's always been at his best when he's playing three sides of the same story off against each other.


	31. Chapter 31

_Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all my readers – as a special present, here's an extra-long chapter!_

* * *

The dawn of the forty-fifth day since Jane has last seen Loki stains the sky in pink and red. Jane watches it with eyes that are weary not from lack of sleep, but from the ache inside her heart. She has gone from months of nothing but semi-daily visits from Loki to being surrounded by people who believe themselves to be her friends, coworkers, colleagues, wary acquaintances… she is overwhelmed by the presence of so many people. She is also bone-crushingly lonely. She misses Loki with an intensity that makes the words feel inordinately small, even in the space of her own mind.

Jane shrugs against the weight inside of herself, bringing the bottle of something to her lips and drinking deeply from it. The alcohol barely even burns her now, and she knows that is not a good thing. At the point where Tony finally gave her access to the labs, she had tried to distance herself from the self-destructive maelstrom that has been growing around her own life. There was actually an eight-day renaissance of Doctor Jane Foster, astrophysicist and workaholic. Unfortunately, after eight straight twenty-hour days, Tony Stark had appeared with troubled eyes and a creased forehead. Apparently, he had decided to be insistent about Jane taking her weekends.

It's unfortunate, because Jane has never really understood balance. She throws herself into things headlong, and without the touchstone of constant work and research, she is adrift. With the ache in her heart growing into a soul-eating monster of doubt and pain and darkness, she can't help but want to wash everything away. She brings the bottle to her lips again. There's a part of her that wants to smash it. She wants to watch the glass crash apart into deadly slivers. To observe the paths of the liquid course down the stone and glass edifice of the building. She's terrified of who she is becoming.

Instead of expressing the pain she feels in violence, she turns it inward. Her bare arms press against the chill metal of the balcony railing. It's cold out, in this early dawn of morning, but she doesn't even shiver. She feels like everything cold has already sunken into her skin, poisoning her blood. It has taken her forty-five days, but she has finally realized that she has been a fool and an idiot. She has been used and corrupted and broken down into a fraction of the person she once was, and she has let it happen to herself.

Jane sets the bottle down onto the floor of the balcony. Her hands tremble with the cold her emotions won't let her feel and the honey-coloured liquid sloshes back and forth before settling. She lifts her hands to the balcony rail and grabs hold of it with an icy grip. Her knuckles are white with force and the metal is hard and cold in her grasp. She lets her eyes squeeze shut and she fights the tears that threaten to spill. She has laid her life, her work, her heart, and her soul down in sacrifice to a god who doesn't care in the most literal way. Loki has lied to her, abandoned her, terrified her, twisted her. She's a shell of the Jane Foster that once was.

"You're getting angsty, again," Embra's brassy voice cuts through the self-flagellation like a knife.

Jane opens her eyes slowly. She missed the sound of the balcony door opening and the click of Embra's heels, but she is unsurprised by her presence. The magic that wraps itself around Embra is smoky and warm. It's also duller than Jane recalls it having been when they first met.

"A few weeks is nothing in the life of an immortal being, you know," she continues, "He hasn't abandoned you."

Jane turns her head, letting her tangled curls slide across her face and hide her. "How do you know that?" she asks, her voice sounding hollow in her ears.

"I don't," Embra says lightly. "But if he's abandoned you after a few weeks, what does that say about my sister leaving me here for months on end?" She steps up to the balcony rail and grabs on alongside Jane. "For all I know, Loki might have finally decided to live up to my sister's expectations. For all I know, they might be cutting a bloody swath across the galaxy, making the power grab to end all power grabs."

Her words only freeze Jane further. There is a lump in her throat that she can't swallow. With her own fears given voice by someone as brutally straightforward as Embra, her mind is slowing to a crawl. There is no life after Loki. No planned life, anyway. She'd surrendered that power, to plan and decide the course of her own life, long ago. Without him to drive it onwards, she feels bereft.

A spark of fire dances around Embra's fingertips, and Jane watches in mute fascination as she lights a cigarette with the tiny, magicked flame. Embra takes a long draw, exhaling a cloud of smoke out over the city skyline. "Here," she says quietly, thrusting the thin, white stick into Jane's clumsy hands, "Nicotine's a stimulant. Counters some of the down of the alcohol, in human systems anyway."

Jane stares down at the cigarette, watching a thin trail of smoke wind its way from the tiny ember that keeps it alight. It feels faintly warm in her cold fingers. She knows the risks, knows the stupidity of this. She takes a tiny puff of it anyway. She's only mortal, after all. _This is all your fault_, she thinks out into the early morning sky, sullenly passing the responsibility without any real conviction.

The cigarette doesn't make her feel any better. Thinking biting thoughts at Loki does.

* * *

It becomes a habit over the next few days. Every lie she tells, every nasty thought she has, every over-indulgence gets prefaced with a thought directed solely at _him_. He _is_ the devil, for her anyway, and now that she has chosen to admit it to herself, the memories wash over her with dark determination. He wanted the role once. She wonders if it's irony or inevitability that she is finally willing to offer it to him.

Right now, she sits in her little lab room in the dark, illuminated only by a tiny, glowing ball of light that hovers on the desk before her. She observes it with a clinical detachment, occasionally reaching out and changing its colour with a light brush of her fingertips. It began as a warm orange and has since wandered down the spectrum to a cold blue that casts the room in stark shadows. It is distinctly unflattering.

The door lurches open with a sick determination. The dark-haired head that pokes into the space looks vaguely disbelieving as it stares at Jane from overtop a strange, hulking object he carries in his arms. The man walks into the room with only the faintest hint of stagger. Jane watches him struggle, thinking all the while that once upon a time she would have offered help or at least a bleating protest of care. Instead, she feels a hollow apathy. _Your fault_, she seethes out towards the empty universe, long since having decided that the target of her ire isn't listening.

"So, uh," Tony Stark's voice is strained, "Interesting lighting scheme you've got going here." There's a pause as Jane directs an irritated gaze at him. The harsh light does him no favours, illuminating his face in a way that highlights the strain of his burden and the wear of middle age. "Don't suppose," he grates, the bulk shifting precariously in his grasp, "You can clear the desk?" His voice is vaguely incredulous at the end, as if he can't quite fathom that someone has lost their hero worship of him.

Jane sniffs, a flick of her wrists levitating the ball further up and changing its tone to something less horror story and more broad spectrum illumination. The moment the ball of light has cleared him, Tony lets the object down upon her desk, ignoring the piles of papers and scatter of pens and pencils. With a grunt, he steps back, admiring his handiwork.

The object is a mishmash of twisted metals that Jane cannot quite name. Bands of alloy (that perhaps _are_ yet unnamed) cross back and forth around what seems to be a central conduit. Right now, it appears to be powered down. It looks to Jane as if a jolt of power would put the bands into motion, generating a field of energy… she looks sharply up at Tony. "What is this?" she demands, a strange shrillness in her voice.

Tony sighs, his eyes weighing heavily on her. "You know," he begins, a humourous tone in his voice, "When I first heard Thor _had_ a human girlfriend, I figured she'd be, you know, super-hot and have a sense of humour…"

Jane feels her jaw tense, her teeth grating against themselves. "And instead you get what?" she snarls, "A cranky astrophysicist?"

Tony looks at her for a long moment before sighing again. He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it decidedly rumpled. "You just… with the magic and the secrets and everything?" he pauses, as if hesitant, "You remind me a lot more of his less likeable brother."

If anything, Jane grows tenser. "I am _not_ like Loki," she snaps. The ball of light above them flickers. Jane swallows hard, feeling nauseous. "I'm _not_," she says again, the words bordering on a sob.

Tony looks at her with uncertainty in his eyes. "Did you…" he stops, his gaze serious now. "Listen," he says finally, settling down on the edge of her desk beside his mystery object, "I don't _know_ what exactly your story is. Partly because you won't tell us, but that's all besides the point. The point is… we all met Loki. We all fought him. We know what he's like… all intense insanity and agitation…"

"But he's not like that," Jane interrupts.

The room goes silent in a way that Jane could not have imagined. She looks at Tony Stark for a long moment. She absorbs the sudden slackness of his mouth, the tiredness around his eyes, the way the sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and even for that are daubed with what seems to be grease or oil. His hands twitch slightly against the thighs of his faded jeans.

"Is there any version of reality where we forget I said that?" she breathes, her voice a hushed murmur as the ball of light above them flickers again.

"I don't think so, Ms. Secrets-and-lies," he says in a tone that suggests he is still miles away in thought, "Pretty sure visits from evil demigods constitute a national security problem."

Jane feels a blank hollowness in her gut. "He's the one who brought the girls," she says flatly, "Thor's in a dungeon on Asgard. The part about it being attacked is true."

"According to the Norse god of lies," Tony counters.

Jane runs frustrated fingers through her tangled curls. There's a part of her that is secretly overjoyed that she has slipped. So much so, that she almost wonders if it wasn't a deliberate self-sabotage. She's been aching to tell the truth. Even so, the truth itself tastes like ash on her tongue. It comes too quickly, too lacking in emotion.

"I just don't care anymore," she says finally, the words sounding as empty as she feels as the realization washes through her. "I don't _care _about Asgard. I don't care about Thor being stuck in a dungeon, or the universe being on the verge of war, or that Loki is just… gone." The words rattle out of her throat with all the force of dead leaves, scattering themselves into the empty room without effect or emotion. There's a part of her that really just wants to cry for the Jane she has lost. She just can't quite believe that her confessions have fallen onto Tony Stark, of all people.

He looks at her with a sort of shock in his eyes, and stands quickly. A few half-steps back, he seems to have caught himself, and settles into a watchful slump. His eyes dart to the ball of light above them. "So," he says slowly, "This magic stuff. That's all… _him_ then?"

Jane stares at the papers strewn across her desk. "Not really," she says dully. "I mean, its because of him I can do it. It's… he's the one who told me about it being the exotic dark matter. And that you can use it. And… there may have been some magic lessons." She ignores the disbelieving snort Tony gives her, "But once you… once you _touch _it, its like it gets this instant connection to you. And it just grows. I don't," she gazes around the room as if in a daze. Her eyes land on the glowing ball of light above them. "No one taught me how to do that!" she exclaims, gesturing up at it.

"Magic lessons?" Tony repeats, skepticism in his voice. "The guy who threw me out a window gave you _magic lessons_?" He begins to pace, his movements erratic. "Have we wandered into some sort of bad Harry Potter fanfiction where Voldemort reforms and becomes a professor at Hogwarts?"

Jane somehow finds her feet. "It isn't like that," she grates, her fingers flexing involuntarily as she finally meets Tony's eyes.

He looks at her with disbelief and shock and betrayal written across his features. And then something else seeps into his eyes. Perhaps it's the memory of Jane shooting ice missiles into the face of mech-dogs, or perhaps its the spark of fire that is harmlessly licking her clenched fist, but for the first time since Jane Foster has met Tony Stark, something approximating respect enters his eyes.

"Say I believe you," he says quietly, "Say I accept everything you're telling me. Maybe Loki's not such a bad guy when he's not hell-bent on taking over a planet." He pauses, licking his lips, dark eyes searching her own. "_Why_ did you decide to trust _him_?"

Jane looks at Tony for along moment. There's nothing in her right now, only the hollow emptiness she felt when she'd been forced to face the full strength of the assembled Avengers. Right now, its just her and Tony Stark, minus the suit. Its surreal, but she knows she's safe. She's the one with the power, actually.

"I mean," he continues, "I read about the New Mexico incident – you already knew Loki was the bad guy. And everything else was all over the news. There's no way he could show up on your doorstep…"

"He didn't," she says softly, "It was the stairs of my lab."

Tony's head jerks slightly, "But you should have…"

"Freaked out?" she murmurs, "Contacted SHIELD?" She sighs, "Have you ever looked into who's been funding my research since I turned down SHIELD?"

Tony looks at her with an obvious shiftiness. "Sure," he says broadly, as if ashamed to have been caught, "Some little holding company in Sweden. Fenrir Something or…" he pauses. His lips go taunt and white. "You've been dealing with Loki since the New Mexico incident," he deduces suddenly. It's a statement, cold and hard.

Jane nods. Once. It's a tight, controlled movement, "Only I didn't know it was him until the news reports." She turns her head slightly, "I felt so stupid. So completely idiotic." She bites her lip. "I still do," she admits. There's a blurriness in her eyes that she won't quite admit to.

Tony is quiet for a very long time. There's a very awkward stillness in the room. The flames in Jane's hands die out. The light above them flickers again. She runs a hand across her eyes. Just to rub them. Definitely not to wipe away tears.

"It doesn't make any sense," Tony says finally. He strides quickly towards the calculations that still paper the walls. His eyes race across the numbers, "Why would he give you any of this?" He turn to a second wall, heavy hands crossing the papers as he shakes his head. He spins on his heel at stares hard at Jane. "Why would he teach you magic? Why would he… what possible motivation…"

"He does love Asgard," Jane says quietly. Her heart throbs painfully as her mind conjures up the images of Asgard he gave her. "I can't even tell you how much," she whispers. Her heart burns with shame. Whatever betrayal she has imagined Loki has inflicted upon her, this is so much worse. To Tony, of all people, she is admitting one of his most painful weaknesses.

Tony's eyes her warily, "I won't even ask you how you know that."

"It's better that way," she agrees.

The awkward stillness fills the room once more. Tony takes a few slow steps back towards Jane's desk. A hand falls slowly onto one curved band of the strange object he's brought it. "It's a generator," he says quietly, "If you can feed magic in, like you say you can, this can focus it."

Jane looks at the unwieldy bulk in surprise. "An Einstein-Rosen Bridge generator?" she whispers. "We wouldn't need…" she feels the words die in her throat. She still has no idea how to set any directionality into it. But it does has the power to build bridges across space. She lifts her face to Tony, fear and shame and wonder and always, always that guilty, greedy longing for the stars colouring her expression.

* * *

Tony will never trust her again. He will also never underestimate her again. She is, actually, more certain of the second than the first. There's a question in his eyes that asks why she still lives, why she managed to wrest tutelage, when so many others who have dealt with Loki met only death. There's a part of him that wavers on the edge of deciding that she too must be evil, but then she downs another glass of something sweet and pink and fruity, and his gaze softens. There's actually a strange empathy there, as he looks between her and the glass of scotch in his own hands. It's written in his eyes. She's bought his silence with her misery. He still believes this is about Thor for her.

In the dim lighting of the party suite, Embra and Bryn twist to music that Jane doesn't recognize. It has more thumps and beats than she knows what to do with. Tony has thrown an impromptu party for whoever is nearby, and Pepper is curled comfortably around his side. Steve watches Bryn dance with a troubled expression across his lips as he pretends to listen to whatever it is Bruce is trying to tell him over the sound of the music. It actually all borders on depressing, and Jane closes her eyes against it.

"We should go somewhere!" Embra exclaims, flopping onto the luxurious, extended sofa at the midpoint of the curve. She is close enough to Jane that she could play her statement off as a joke to a friend, but also near enough to Tony that it holds a hint of question. What she really wants is permission to leave the tower they have been confined to for nearly two months.

"What could you possibly want out there that isn't here?" Tony drawls, the curve of an indulgent smile on his lips.

"People, for one," Embra snaps back, patiently ignoring Pepper's annoyed glare.

There is a thoughtful moment, where Tony turns his head just enough to make eye contact with Jane. He looks at her for a long moment, processing the request alongside the truths she has admitted earlier. "There's no reason not to, is there?" he asks quietly enough that Steve and Bruce cannot hear it over the music and distance across the room.

Jane looks back and forth between Embra and Bryn, who has wandered over to the counter Steve is leaning against. She is sipping away at something, but it is obvious that she's captured his attention more fully than Bruce had. The man looks to be in a state of distress, as he turns his gaze between the princess and his friend with the anger issues. Embra lets out a hushed whine by her side.

Jane sighs. "There isn't really anyone after them, if that's what you mean," she admits. She watches Pepper's eyes go wide as she sits up, glancing fiercely between Jane and Tony. "They're fully capable of causing trouble on their own though," she adds, calmly ignoring Embra spiteful look at the last.

Tony nods tightly, squeezing Pepper's hand before standing and saying something quiet to JARVIS that turns the music abruptly off. "What do you say?" he asks his super-powered friends across the room, "Should we take this party on the road?"

Bruce gives him a skeptical look, as if ready to point out that this "party" sucks, but Steve cuts him off. He's flashed a look at Bryn, who looks about ready to burst with an earnest desire to get out of the building, and seems to have set his mind to something. "It seems fair," he begins, his voice evened as reasoned, "I don't think the girls have even set foot outside the tower in weeks."

"With good reason," points out Bruce.

"It isn't like they'll be alone," Tony points out dryly, dripping a sense of insulted pride. "They will have over half of Earth's most powerful team of heroes with them."

Bruce glances over at Jane, who shrugs in response to his critical look. Beside her, Embra is veritably bouncing up and down in her low-cut top. Even so, Bruce's eyes roll over her and look to Pepper, who wears pursed lips and has her fingers already on speed dial. "I'm not going anywhere without Natasha," she says pointedly.

It's not exactly an auspicious start to the evening, but from Embra's continued bouncing and Bryn's sparkling smile, Jane supposes they will take what they can get.

* * *

They've ended up in some sort of upscale New York night club, resplendent in coloured lights and more of the type of music Jane feels confused by. Fake plants sprout from elegant planters and lend privacy to booth-like seats and wildness to the bar. Lights placed at the base of the faux plant life illuminate and cast frond-like patterns across the walls. The effect is suggestive of a jungle, if jungles were made up of writhing bodies, fast beats, and strobe lights.

Jane flashes a glance around the space, watching the people with wary eyes. There's a number of girls similar in shape and apparent age to Embra and Bryn, and if Tony Stark's gaze hovers on their bodies just a moment longer than they should, Pepper Potts is amusedly tolerant of it. A young, smirking bartender is serving something nearly neon to Bryn, who's smiling shyly up at him from beneath hooded eyes, her body all the while angled towards Steve Rogers. The subject of her relentless torture seems as frozen with indecision here as he was in Stark's suite, and really, Jane hopes he'll be smart about this. Nothing good comes from loving immortal beings. She would know.

"So this is considered good babysitting on Midgard, then?" the voice drawls into her ear with a suddenness that sends her heart plummeting into her stomach like a stone. "You do realize that your early cultures would have portrayed them as fertility goddesses?"

His voice is so close that it tears at her, but she knows he isn't really here. After nearly two months of his absence, the ghost of him in his projected form cuts across her senses like a knife. She can only imagine what the presence of his real self and its accompanying magic might do. She shivers against her own will. "What are you doing?" she grates out from between clenched jaws. "Are you trying to ruin everything?"

There's a long pause, and Jane turns her head to look at the empty space beside her. Instead of thin air, she's faced with an image of him so lifelike that her eyes burn. She feels her lips tighten into a frown. "What?" she scoffs, bitterness in her tone, "Do you _want _them to see you?"

"I don't particularly care," he replies airily, "But they can't. This one is just for you, dear Jane."

Jane trembles with fury that she pulls deep inside of herself. She turns her head back to the bar, where she watches Steve inch closer and closer to a laughing Bryn. Pink lights stain her pale blonde hair, and she looks almost fairy-like, innocent and sweet. Jane swallows hard.

"Do you really have nothing to say?" he prompts her. "Somehow I'd thought otherwise. You've been blaming quite a lot on me lately."

Something pulls tight inside her chest, and Jane swings her head back to the image-that-isn't-him. "Why shouldn't I?" she bites, "I didn't even think you were listening!"

For a moment, something sparks in his blue-green eyes. They seem almost greener somehow. The projection seems momentarily more real. The moment passes. "Of course I was listening," he retorts, ice on his lips, "I would need to know if you managed to completely destroy my plans."

Jane looks away again. There's a part of her inside that has been slowly dying without him. It feels like its in its death throws now, with such jagged words falling between them. It takes her a moment to realize that the burning behind her eyes is not just suppressed rage, it's the beginning of tears.

"You still aren't here," she says quietly, her voice the barest breath.

"Is that the real problem?" he asks her, his voice as hushed as her own. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine his breath echoing past her ear, can almost feel the wave of magic that travels around him, swirling like eddies around his feet. But she can't, because he isn't really here.

"Jane?" Tony's voice jolts her from her reverie, "You feeling okay? You look a little green."

She opens her eyes to see Tony and Pepper sliding into the seats across from her in the small booth she's positioned herself in. She swallows, ignoring the wraithlike trail of magic in the air, and the projection that sits beside her seeming entirely solid, though obviously invisible to the couples' eyes. "I'm fine," she squeaks, catching the projection's smirk from the corner of her eye.

Tony looks deeply concerned. "Jane," he begins, the words disappearing from his tongue as he shakes his head.

"What Tony means is," Pepper interjects, her pale, well-manicured hands stretching across the faintly sticky surface of the table to catch Jane's own, "Is that we're all here for you. Whatever it is you've been through, whatever you're still hiding, whatever it is, we're here with you now. We'll help you get through it."

The projection stares at Pepper's hands for a long moment before lifting gleeful eyes. _Isn't that sweet?_ His words fall directly into her, _Your new friends want to help you_. As much as she wants to, Jane can't quite pull her eyes away from the mocking look the projection is giving her. _I wonder how they would react to the knowledge that all your heart ache is because you miss me?_

Jane feels a tremble of vicious anger run through her. Magic presses in on her subconscious and gathers around her. She feels as if hushed voices are murmuring directly into the back of her brain stem. Her hands flex momentarily in Pepper's grasp, and she feels awareness return like a flash of lightning in the dark. Her eyes jerk to the sympathetic looks Tony and Pepper have cornered her with. There's pity in their eyes. She knows that Tony has told Pepper whatever it is that he thinks he knows. She sees now that they still believe that Loki has hurt her, has held something above her, has perhaps threatened her with death or terrible pain.

She squirms in her seat, twisting her hands free of Pepper's well-meaning grasp. "I'm fine," she says so quietly that Pepper strains to read her lips in the noise of the club.

"You!" Embra's voice is thunderous, cutting through the music like a knife. Her eyes flash with fire from across the room and Jane swears that there is a sudden whiff of ozone in the air. Heedless of her short skirt, Embra flies the distance to the table, throwing herself against her arms that catch the table's edge with claw-like fingers. Her shoulders are hunched forward, her stare piercing the silent, empty space between Jane and the brass bars that run the length of this level, containing the booths and their often drunken occupants.

"How dare you?" growls Embra, practically spitting the words as Tony and Pepper stare back and forth between the apparently empty corner and the furious girl leaning over their table. For her part, Jane feel strangely remote. There's a moment of distant amusement as she watches the projection stare back at Embra, blinking slowly as if being caught had not been in his plans. "How dare you just _leave_ us here?" Embra screeches, attracting attention from all corners of the room. "_You_ are supposed to be responsible for us. _You_ are our only way home. How could you just disappear for _weeks_ without anything?" the words are barely human as they stream from her mouth. "Do you have _any_ idea what you've put Jane through? She doesn't even know what you've _done to her._"

Embra's dark hair hangs limply against her mocha-tinted skin. Sweat drips from her forehead, plastering loose strands to her cheeks and neck. Her eyes have a terrible red glow to them, like burning coals set into what should be a beautiful human face. Heat radiates from her as she screams words that make increasingly little sense to Jane, and even less to those who have been drawn nearer by the scene she seems intent upon making.

"Being married to my sister does not excuse you from…" Embra's voice comes out as more of a sizzle than a hiss. She's so low to the table now that she looks more like a wildcat about to pounce.

"That's more than enough," Loki's voice is so low, that it is felt more than heard. The projection shimmers slightly like a desert mirage, and the choking sound Tony makes as he shuffles Pepper out of the booth tells Jane that finally he has made himself obvious to the outside world. Embra remains in her near crouch over the table, her body practically trapping Jane into the bizarre tableau.

Silence falls across the space. At first, it seems that the music has been turned down by whoever is supposed to be controlling it, but Jane can taste the magic in the air. There's a silencing spell hovering in the air around them. Outside of the immediate bubble, the dancers are still moving as the music plays on.

Tony stares around, his dark eyes calculating distances and probabilities as his grasp on Pepper's arm tightens his knuckles to white. "Good of you to mention this, Jane," he hisses.

Jane turns her head slowly, blinking at Tony with an almost careless innocence. "I would tell you," she says icily, clearly speaking each word as if it is made of spun glass, "If he was actually here." She lets her gaze drift down to the table's surface, where her hand seems to have somehow become trapped under the projection's. She meets the image's gaze and smiles bitterly, lifting her hand directly through the image without resistance. She slides from the booth, rising with a grace that surprises her.

Tony stares between the projection and Jane, suspicion in his eyes. Embra hisses lowly, looking about ready to crawl across the table's surface to wring the projection's neck. Jane turns on her heel, snatching up the blue-tinged cocktail she's been nursing for the past half hour. "You're wasting your time," she says pointedly to Embra. She levels her gaze at Loki's image and with the lightest flick of her wrist sends the contents of her glass arcing through the air. There's the sound of liquid splattering onto leather, and the image flickers out like static. Embra turns her head to stare at Jane, her mouth slightly open and her eyes suddenly clear. "But," she sputters, "How did you know?"

Jane rolls her eyes as Embra leans back up towards her, uncertainty settling into her expression. "I'm sick of playing games," Jane spits, settling the glass back onto the table with a heavy-handed clunk. "I'm just… I'm just done," she snarls. She spins on her heel and stalks an entire three steps away before she lifts her gaze to encounter yet another image of the man she does and doesn't want to see.

"For the love of," she begins, raising a hand as she prepares to swipe through the image. His pale hand snatches her wrist from the air with ease, and Jane's words sputter away into nothing.

"God," he finishes for her, "Yes, I thought we'd gotten past that."


	32. Chapter 32

Natasha Romanov does not go clubbing. What she does is provide backup and security for people who do go clubbing but really shouldn't. People like Tony Stark and the lost girls of Asgard he seems to have adopted into his tower of misfit creatures. She's not impressed with the entire situation, and the tightness around Pepper's mouth suggests that there is yet another level of fucked-up to this story that she still doesn't know about.

It's an idea brought home by the sight of Embra, with literal fire in her eyes (did anyone know she could do that?) sprinting across the second level dance floor to shout invectives and accusations at an empty spot inside the booth that Jane Foster hads hidden herself in for the night. Natasha begins a stealthy trek across the room, hugging shadows all the while. There's so much in this that isn't right. So much of the story that is missing. She can't stand the lackadaisical approach Tony and Bruce have taken to Foster, or Steve's lovesick eyes every time he glances at the blonde-haired alien princess she brought with.

So while her breath catches and her heart feels like its in her throat, the sight of Loki in the middle of the club, one hand clenched around Jane Foster's raised wrist, doesn't really surprise her. "Barton," she murmurs into the almost invisible headset she wears, "You're gonna want to be here."

There's no easy way to approach this, but the club is one of those de-constructed places with open girders and ceiling supports. Natasha smiles grimly, leaping with feline grace from the floor to the bar to the lowest-hanging girders. She slips easily along the ceiling until she is poised nearly above the scene. Somehow the sounds of the club have gone faint. She can hear with exquisite clarity as Jane wrenches her wrist in Loki's iron grasp, whimpering faintly when she cannot get free.

"You aren't controlling your magic," she hears Loki snap, and for the first time, she realizes that there is a fine web of electric shocks running down his arm from where he holds Jane's wrist. The pale blue electricity scatters across the metal that covers his chest. With eerie surprise, Natasha swings her gaze to the lights that rest alongside her. There is a faint hum coming off of them, as if they are in the process of overloading. Her eyes widen just slightly. She's seen Jane put an icicle through the solid steel skull of a mechanical dog. She's been underestimating her.

"What does it matter?" Jane spits back, and for the first time, Natasha really looks at the woman. Her eyes flash with fury and misery and self-loathing. Her brown curls seem to have a life of their own, pulsing with the electric current she's pushing through her body at her attacker. Except that aside from the awkward wrenching he's exerting on Jane's wrist in an attempt to lower it, Loke doesn't actually seem to be attacking.

"Because," Natasha hears him grunt, "Like any power in the universe, if you don't control it, it will control you!"

There's something in the way he says it that has Natasha switching her gaze to him. He's different from how she remembers. Wilder, in some ways, but also more grounded. There's fewer cats loose in his head perhaps. He looks less human now, though she suspects that there may be some bias in her assessment of that.

"Let her go, Loki." It's Bruce's voice that cuts through the mystery silence that surrounds her and Natasha's breathes a Russian curse from between partly opened lips.

"Change of plans, Barton," she murmurs, "Get the civilians out. That's the priority." She doesn't wait for Clint's affirmative, instead biting down on her lower lip as she watches Bruce reach out.

"Stop!" Loki commands, in tones more serious than she's heard, "This, is between teacher and student." She watches Bruce pause for a moment, watches the colour drain from his face. "You would do well to take leave while you still can," Loki continues, though his eyes have, the whole while, been focused with perfect attention upon Jane.

"Student?" Bruce sputters, and Natasha feels the hollow in the pit of her stomach widen. Bruce has perhaps been the most fond of Jane. "What do you mean, student?" He turns his head to try to capture the gaze of the woman who seems to be barely clinging to control of the situation, "Jane," Bruce prompts insistently, "What does he mean?"

There's a long moment where silence reigns supreme. "No," Jane breathes, her eyes strangely alight, "Not here. Not…" Natasha watches in silent fascination as Jane shakes herself from some sort of possession. The electric shocks die, her hand falls and lands without resistance upon Loki's chest. Jane takes in deep, staggering breaths, stepping _closer_ to Loki. With a gaping mouth and wide eyes, Natasha watches Loki's hand tighten around Jane's, pressing it hard against him. Something inexplicable has happened, all well beyond what they have seen, obviously. Something that has left Jane drained and wobbling upon her feet.

"Jane?" Bruce echoes again, his eyes wide with shock and dawning horror, his tone swimming in betrayal.

"I told you," Jane's voice is thin and reedy, but the words seem to hit Bruce squarely in the chest, "That you wouldn't like it."

"Wouldn't like it?" he hisses, his eyes flashing to Loki, who looks almost eerily calm. Bruce takes a deep breath, shaking his head. His eyes are searching for an exit. "I… I need to not be here," he stutters, and its with relief that Natasha watches him _walk_ towards an exit. She lets go of the breath she's been unconsciously holding. The last thing this night needs is an appearance from the "other guy." By the time she turns her gaze back, Loki and Jane are gone.

Her brain takes a moment to catch up. Where a split second before had stood their enemy, there was now an empty space. "Fuck magic," Natasha breathes, letting herself drop down the twelve or fifteen feet to the floor. She braces herself against the fall, landing curled up and ready to fight. Instead, Steve stretches a hand out towards her, pulling her up in one smooth motion.

"Alright," he says, rubbing a hand wearily over his face, "Who else didn't see that one coming?"

Natasha ignores him in favour of setting her keen eyes on the near-frothing expression of rage on Embra's face. "What are you?" she hears herself ask the girl. Loki has just kidnapped their astrophysicist, and Natasha, for one, is not keen on the whole "history repeats itself" idea. This is no time for niceties.

To her credit, Embra blinks slowly and seems to at least try to pull back some semblance of sanity. "I'm a fire demon," she says finally, "I thought you knew?"

Natasha shakes her head impatiently. "And you?" she spits at the blonde who seems to have half-hidden herself behind Steve.

"I'm," she stutters, "I'm Vanir. I don't… I'm not anything." She blinks pathetically. Natasha scowls impatiently, "None of you are not anything," she grinds, "So what are you?"

"Immortal?" the girl squeaks, sounding less than certain. Natasha rolls her eyes and transfers her gaze back to Embra. At least one of the pair seems to be able to speak.

Embra shrugs. "She's useless at magic," she admits, "But most of the Aesir and Vanir have access to Idunn's apples, so yeah, immortal." Natasha narrows her eyes. Embra sticks her chin out slightly, the curve of a smile on her lips, "She's not super-strong or anything, like Thor, if that's what you're thinking. But she'll heal real quick and stuff."

"That's," Steve seems slightly at loss for words, "Enlightening," he settles finally. There's a faintly downcast look in his eyes, and if Natasha had even one romantic bone in her body, she might even admit that the Vanir princess looks like her heart is breaking. But she doesn't. Natasha Romanov is all business.

"So what did I miss?" Clint barks, jogging up to her with bow unslung. If there's a trace of softening in her features at the sight of him, its only that she is relieved to finally have uncompromised support.

"Reindeer games," Tony mumbles, one hand fisting itself through his dark hair, even as the other holds Pepper almost unbearably close. It'd almost be sweet if Natasha hadn't caught him staring at younger women all evening.

For his part, Clint takes the news well. Natasha watches his lips thin and his eyes darken. For a moment, he seems to breath just a little deeper. "Just as well," he says finally, "I never did get to put that arrow through his eyeball."

Tony winces, and for not the first time in the night, Natasha is reminded of the fact that she still has reservations about him, even after everything they have been through. "What?" she growls, catching Pepper's slightly guilty look in the process.

"It might not be quite that simple," he says quietly.

"What couldn't be simple?" Steve says broadly, "He just walked in and kidnapped Jane."

They've settled into a tight circle, and vaguely, Natasha realizes that the music is somehow back up to volume. "We should relocate this party," she says quietly, eyes indicating their location.

"Don't see how this is a party," Clint echoes back at her. Natasha feels the ghost of a smile cross her lips.

" 'Least its not Budapest," she quips back.

They grab a surprisingly despondent Bruce as they leave the club and pile into Tony's stretch-Hummer. "It's electric," he deadpans at Clint's questioning look. "Really, it has its own arc-reactor," he continues.

"I don't care, Stark," Clint interjects, "Just thought it was an odd vehicle choice."

"Could've gone with the private helicopter," Tony replies without a trace of sarcasm.

Natasha shakes her head and pushes the apparently useless blonde girl into the vehicle. "Let's just get you girls home before you get kidnapped too," she says bitingly, her eyes giving Embra a pointed look.

Embra's eyes crease worryingly. "Why do you all keep saying that?" she asks quietly as she settles with preternatural grace into her seat. Natasha slides in beside her and closes the vehicle's door with a slam. She shuts her eyes against the inane rambling. "Jane was the one who popped them out of there," Embra continues.

And that is the moment they all fall silent. It seems impossible, that tiny Jane Foster, astrophysicist and fledgling alcoholic, could be capable of such a thing. "She has the kind of power that could transport an unwilling god?" Natasha asks slowly, letting the full meaning of her words sink into the thick skulls of the men who sit around her.

"Why would he be unwilling?" the blonde one asks, her face at once angelic and confused.

"First things first," Tony barks at Embra, "Did you mention Loki being married to _your sister_?"

"How is that first things first?" Natasha sputters. "Isn't how Loki and Jane are on a first name basis the first thing?"

"Not if you already know about it," glowers Bruce from the corner. Natasha shoots him a darting glance. His gaze is settled firmly and accusingly upon Tony. She follows it.

Tony seems just the slightest bit defensive, his mouth opened as if he isn't quite sure how to frame the words. His hands are raised just enough to look like they are searching for an invisible whisky glass for comfort. Pepper leans into him just enough to pat his arm gently, "It came out this morning," she says for him, "Jane admitted that it was Loki who brought the girls to Earth. And that he's the one who showed her the stuff about magic."

"And you didn't think this was something your should, I dunno, share?" Steve points out, one hand rubbing his right temple. He closes his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. Natasha watches him process the new information. His eyes open slowly, and he cocks his head towards Embra. "I thought your sister was trying to marry Thor?" he asks, his hand slipping from his face as his expression grows hard.

Embra stares at him for a long moment before shaking her head impatiently. With a derisive toss of her hair, she seems to make a decision. "My sister wants to rule the universe," she says in a bored tone, "What the hell would she want with Thor?"

"What indeed," echoes Bruce, disbelief on his face. "So why exactly is Jane involved in any of this?" his face is getting twitchy again, "Or are we all just forgetting about that part?"

"Come to think of it," Tony begins, his brow furrowed, "Why was she all broken up every time you mentioned your sister if she's not marrying Thor?"

A heavy silence falls between them, the Avengers. Heedless of the weight of their thoughts, Embra snatches up a half-empty bottle of champagne and lifts it to her lips. Bryn looks about ready to melt into the seat covers. Neither seems prepared to comment.

"You don't think," Steve begins, his voice filled with quiet horror.

"Truth is usually ugly, Cap," Natasha interrupts, strangely pleased about finally being able to put her troubled thoughts about Jane Foster to rest. Traitors were something she knew how to deal with.

"But," the word seems stuck in Tony's mouth. Another dark secret he's been withholding choking him. "But Loki's not working against Asgard," he looks at Embra helplessly. The words are a statement, but his tone is a question. Once again, every eye falls onto the alien girl who's admitted mere minutes before to being some kind of demon.

She looks at them carefully, setting down the champagne bottle with regretful eyes. "No," she says quietly, rubbing her hands across themselves, "He's not. He's working against my sister. Well," she pauses, "He's working against her while pretending to work for her. And Jane," Embra sighs, "She's just over her head."

There's an ugly feeling in Natasha's gut at Embra's words. Traitors were easy, double agents less so, collateral damage least of all. "How long has this been going on?" Natasha asks quietly.

Embra shrugs, "Long enough for Jane to have picked up like three hundred years worth of magic." She looks at their uncertain expressions. "I don't mean that it would take her that long," she corrects, "I mean that's the equivalent. Loki's probably been rushing things for her. He needs her to be able to help him open Bifrost bridges, after all."

"We should inform SHIELD," Natasha says gently, knowing that current company won't be entirely pleased with her conclusion.

"Or we don't," Clint says firmly. Natasha finds herself staring at him in hurt surprise. Of all the people she had expected to disagree with her, he is the last. "Listen," he leans forward slightly, exhaling heavily, "We involve SHIELD in this, we involve ourselves in this, and most importantly, we involve Earth in this."

"And you're saying it's not our battle," Natasha murmurs, realization seeping in.

"Thor did say our actions are lighting Earth up as being ready for higher forms of war," Steve adds, a wary exhaustion in his voice.

"He said the Tesseract was doing that," Tony corrects.

"Doesn't matter," Bruce interrupts, "Jane's involved. You think aliens are going to discriminate the fine line between humans and humans representing Earth as a whole?"

A grim silence falls upon the occupants of the vehicle. Pepper seems unusually pale, "Do you remember the good old days?" she asks Tony with a wan smile, "When all we had to worry about was terrorists and Obadiah's boardroom schemes?"

Tony looks like he's on the verge of heartbreak. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, pressing his lips to Pepper's forehead, "Look's like I might be going beyond service range again."

Natasha feels something in her throat tighten. She casts a glance at Clint, who's staring grimly down at his own hands. "There's red in my ledger," she murmurs. Suddenly, it hurts to breath. She finds her thoughts wandering back to the way Jane's hand fell to Loki's chest. There's still a piece of the story missing.

Natasha finds herself staring out the window at the dazzling interplay of light and dark that is the still-rebuilding New York skyline. She thinks about the way Loki's hand pressed down upon Jane's. "Is this love?" she whispers, haunted always by the ghosts of her memories. She meets her own gaze in her reflection upon the darkened window. There's a hardness in her eyes that makes her blink. There's something to hate in everyone, isn't there? Doesn't it then stand to reason that there must also be something to love?


	33. Chapter 33

Jane wakes to a darkened room. A faint breeze blows across her face, and for a moment, she lets herself enjoy the coolness of it. Her head aches in the strangest way, as if her brain stem is pulsing with a yet unnamed agony. She turns her head, uncertain where she might be.

There's a figure not too far from where she lies upon the bed, silhouetted in the moonlight that streams in through the window. Jane feels her breath catch in her throat. He's different, somehow. It might be the moonlight, but this Loki is somehow stranger than she remembers. There are shades of blue in his hair that she cannot recall ever having previous seen. He seems impossibly paler too. She watches him silently as he turns to face her. His eyes, which always seemed so indefinable in colour, are a brilliant green. Everything about him seems to leap out at her in angles and edges. He smiles bitterly at her, and Jane closes her eyes in response. Even his teeth seem sharper.

"What happened?" she whispers. There are fragments of memories swirling across her, but above all else, she tastes magic on her tongue. It feels like it has seeped through her body, flooding her cells, leaving her permanently etched with the ghost of it.

Loki lays his palm flat across her forehead. It feels deliciously cold, and Jane almost moans at the pleasure of it. The coolness soothes the heavy pain in her head, chasing away the ache. "Your fever's gone," he mutters, removing his hand with a suddenness that startles a choked sound from her throat. He pauses.

"Don't," she whispers, "S'feels nice. Cold." At first he seems unmoved, and as memory filters in, Jane can't really hold it against him. She remembers sending her cocktail splattering through his projection. It might not have landed on him, but it's rude nonetheless. Though perhaps its nothing to the scene that came later. She writhes against the pain in her head. Thinking hurts.

With hesitance, she feels his hand settle back across her forehead. He sighs quietly. "It's my fault," she hears him say.

Jane wrinkles her brow. She's never heard him admit to being at fault for anything, and the very strangeness of it forces her to move. She pushes herself up on her elbows, silently bemoaning the loss of his cool hand, as he lifts it away in surprise. "What do you mean?" she breathes, ignoring the throbbing at the base of her skull, "How could this be your fault?" Her vision swims for a moment before settling, but now she is certain that he isn't quite the same.

"I should have known you wouldn't be able to control the magic," he says quietly, his thin lips curved into a sharp frown.

Jane struggles to sit up further. There's so very much wrong with his statement. Once again, he's pushing away her abilities, ignoring that she's just as capable as anyone or anything out there. She shoves the pain down, and reaches out for the cloak of magic she wears around herself at all times. It seems strangely absent, and Jane scowls. Her eyes dart up to Loki. There's no doubt in her that whatever is blocking the magic from her is his doing. His cool, appraising gaze gives it all away.

"Why?" she snarls, "Because I'm just a pathetic human?" She pushes herself sideways so her feet hang off the bed. She takes a deep breath as her head recaptures the delightful feeling of being submerged in pain like water. Her eyes cross as she shakes her head against it. "Stop it," she whines, "Please?" His eyes remain impassive as he watches her struggle to her feet. "Please," she begs, her words bordering on a sob, "Unblock the magic."

He sighs again, but lifts a hand and makes a small movement like the drawing back of a curtain. The pain is flooded away by the swirl of magic against her brain, and Jane breathes deeply. It's like reclaiming a lost sense, and she can suddenly feel the magic in the room. It dances around them, clinging to Loki's skin, woven through his very being. It tangles itself around their feet. For a moment, Jane wonders how she's gone her whole life without this wonderful sense of the stuff. Exotic dark matter. Magic. It doesn't matter what she calls it.

"You don't remember then?" he interrupts, his tone full of disapproval and apprehension.

"Remember what?" Jane hears herself snap. "Remember you showing up and…"

"Stopping you from electrocuting three dozen innocent people?" he barks, "Or stopping you from practically exploding with energy?"

Jane steps back, remembering too late that she is still at the edge of the bed, and ending up instead back on her ass. "Only because you showed up," she mutters in excuse, even as a shiver of fear runs up her spine. It is true that she had been on the verge of combusting, that Bruce very nearly ended up with a handful of electric energy, were it not for Loki's words bouncing around in her head, telling her to be calm, to breath, to be still, to control the magic. She remembers. She doesn't want to. She's too scared of what she's become.

Jane wraps her arms around herself. The breeze now feels cold against her skin, raising a trail of goose bumps up and down her arms. "What's happening to me?" she asks softly.

"I told you it would do this," he says in equally quiet tones. He's turned his back to her once again, his eyes staring out into the night beyond this room they're in. "I told you that magic is conscious, that it will haunt you, guide you, control you, if you aren't careful. Anyone and anything that offers you power will do the same."

Jane swallows hard. She remembers his words. Remembers the lessons. She's been ignoring so much of what he's told her, filled with hurt as she has been. "Where are we?" she murmurs, unwilling to hear more of the painful truth. She knows she's been acting like a spoiled child.

"You tell me," he mutters back darkly, "You brought us here."

"You still say that like I shouldn't be able to."

There's a long silence during which Jane regrets what she's said. One day she might learn how to keep her mouth shut. That or maybe she'll stop getting herself involved with alien gods. Or perhaps she'll just end up dead. The constant touch of magic across her body tightens for an imperceptible moment.

"You shouldn't be able to," Loki says finally, disbelief haunting his words. "You shouldn't be able to do _any_ of the things you do, Jane. It took me _centuries_ to learn even half of what you've been doing. Centuries, Jane. And I was considered gifted on Asgard." He turns his head, his eyes sparkling like emeralds in the darkness of the room, "Do you have any idea what that makes you, Jane Foster?"

Jane shifts awkwardly on the bedcovers. She notices absently that they haven't been pulled down. She must have slept for only a minute. "Strange?" she asks finally, her eyes guileless and wide.

"Impossible," Loki insists, stalking closer to her, "Completely, entirely impossible."

Jane stares up at him as he approaches, watching him in a perfectly detached sort of way. He is lovely. Lovely and deadly and insane. She hates him as much as she loves him, but even that is just words against the cold expanse of space that the magic promises her, whispering against her brain and her skin. "If I'm so impossible," she says, "Then how exactly can you bear to be away for weeks on end?"

Her voice is foreign in her own ears. She feels like a shell, like she's watching herself from a distance. "Or perhaps I'm only one of many impossible things. Like the fact that you're married to the person you're fighting against? Or maybe how you keep saying you're from Asgard, but refuse to actually accept them as your family? Or how about the fact that you don't even look like you anymore? Or maybe _this_ is you?" Jane finds her feet and stands as tall as she can, "I don't even know what you really look like," she hisses. She waits a moment before taking aim again, "For all I know, you've never told me an honest word. For all I know, you aren't capable of telling the truth. Maybe," she pauses, watching his eyes flicker dangerously, "Maybe you aren't even capable of _feeling_. Maybe _you_ arethe impossible one."

It takes her a moment to process that the heavy breathing is her own. Jane takes a moment to even out the rise and fall of her chest and then steps past Loki's frozen form. She stalks towards the windows, wrestles with the heavy drapes for a moment, and then suddenly finds her hand on the smooth, curved metal of a door handle. She breathes deep and turns it, finding herself on a tiny balcony. Eyes on the stars above, she steps out and leans against the rail. With a flick of her wrist, she's reproduced Embra's trick, and is lighting the partly crushed cigarette from the pocket of her jeans. The fire demoness would be so proud.

No sooner does she get the fragile, white stick to her lips than she finds it being plucked from her grasp. "And when did this start?" his words are bitter as he stares at the glowing ember at the cigarette's lit end instead of her.

A part of Jane wants to lie, to claim that it's a habit she's had all along. Or that it's a habit of hers at all, really, rather than a stray stuffed in her pocket by Embra in case _she_ wanted one later. "Six days ago," she says instead, stubbornly sticking with the truth, even as her hand reaches out to grab it back.

"No," he says firmly, crushing it in his bare hand and letting it fall.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Jane sputters, entirely irate. "Who says you have any say in my bad habits?"

She makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. He stares at her with eyes hooded with longing. "Because," he begins, bringing his hands to her arms and running them up her chilled skin with a very deliberate motion, "If I wanted the woman I kiss to taste like ash, I'd be with my wife, wouldn't I?"

Jane shivers, suddenly very solidly in her own skin. She's absolutely certain now that his teeth are sharper, and she watches him lick his lips with the sort of intensity of purpose she's only ever seen in movies. She's still angry at him, but she's also melting on the inside. She wants to feel his lips on her own. She wants to feel his arms around her. She wants to be his. Hell, its everything she's been longing for. At the same time, she can't submit. She can't go back to how things have been. She needs to be more than just some waypoint on his travels. She needs this to mean _something_ to him, because, honestly, it means _everything_ to her. Even if the magic in the back of her brain is promising her the stars… she knows she only really wants them if she can have them with… well, with Loki.

"You want truth, Jane?" he says, a dark intensity in his gaze, "You want to know what I _really _look like?"

Jane feels her anger being swept away by curiosity, feels her frustration being washed away by not only his words, but the promise behind them. To let her in. To trust her. To tell her the truth. She opens her mouth, ready to tell him that singular affirmative.

He towers over her, his elegant hands pressing back on her shoulders until she steps back into the room. He doesn't turn to close the door, instead sending a wave of magic towards it to do the job. "The truth, Jane," he says softly, fingers running gently up the arch of her neck, lingering on her chin as he perfects the angle of her lips, "Is that I'm a monster." He leans in towards her, and Jane feels her eyes fall closed, waiting for his lips on hers. He doesn't kiss her though. His lips seek out the shell of her ear and whisper, "I'm a monster, Jane, and you would do well to remember it. For your own sake. So you won't be hurt."

His breath is cool on her skin, and Jane twitches slightly. She can't help her reaction to him. Her memories are already supplying a dozen eager situations that begin with his lips on the curve of her neck. She doesn't want this though. She's done with games. She's done with this seduction of lies and tricks and words that are never followed through on. Jane lifts her hands to his chest, surprised to feel cold skin beneath her fingertips. She takes a deep, longing breath and pushes him back slowly as she opens her eyes.

A ragged gasp catches in her throat. Loki stares back at her with vividly red eyes. There's no trace of the Loki she knows. Dark hair, pale skin, human (or at least human enough) features have been swept away. She is literally looking at a monster from nightmare or myth. Jane feels the pressure behind her fingertips lessen, takes note of the texture of the skin she touches. It's almost rough, thicker than anything she's ever felt. She almost imagines that it must be like the skin of some arctic animal, strong enough to withstand ice and driving snow. And its blue.

Jane stretches her shaking hands across the span of his chest. There's a myriad of scars and stranger shapes across his skin. She lifts her gaze back to his face, and realizes that even here, he's not free of them. Tentative fingers smooth across the series of lines that mar a cheek, the trail etched along a jaw line, the disaster that is his left temple. There's not even hair to protect him in this form, and Jane takes a shaking breath. "Why do you have so many scars?" she whispers, a sliver of aching sorrow in her voice.

"Because I've lived so long," he murmurs back, "Because there have been so many battles." He sounds so bitterly tired.

Jane peers up at him, her fingertips tracing the patterns across his skin with such gentleness she isn't even certain he can feel her touch. His eyes, almost seeming lit from within, watch her without emotion. It horrible and wonderful, all at once. An alien who looks like a proper alien. Loki, finally letting her in. She lets the smile slip across her features. "Loki," she murmurs, using her fingertips to pull his face (as strange as this is) to her lips. She presses them to his forehead, to his cheeks, to his nose, to his eyes that fall closed under her ministrations. She stands on tiptoe to accomplish her task, thanking him silently for letting her in _finally_. For letting her give him some peace. She presses her lips to his, letting her warmth linger on his cold, cold skin.

She pulls away slowly, unwillingly. He needs so much more than this. She owes him so much more, especially after everything she's let come between them. He's done nothing wrong. He's done exactly what her plan had entailed. She's been irresponsible. Been childish. Been a fool.

He opens his eyes with painful slowness. Red eyes blink at her without comprehension. "I'm sorry," Jane whispers, "I've been an idiot." Her fingers linger at his temples, winding their way slowly down his face, tracing trailing paths across his skin as her hands fall back down to his chest. "I… I've…" she stutters, because she can hear him mocking her, the words still echoing across her memory, "I've missed you. It's… its like it eats me alive." Her voice is a shattered, trembling thing, thick with emotion.

"Magic feeds on emotion," he says quietly, slowly, "Especially abandonment. And betrayal."

Jane nods her understanding, feeling not excused, but enlightened. Her fingers move of their own accord across the roughened expanse of skin beneath them. She traces the muscles of his shoulders, his arms. She's entranced by the depth of blue in his skin. The strangeness feels less strange as the moments pass.

"Jane," his voice is ragged with emotion, with desire, with longing, with sorrow and heartache, and it pulls her eyes up to meet his with a jerk. Heavy hands wrap around her upper arms, and Jane feels her breath catch. Her eyes widen with sudden understanding. She nods a silent assent, even as her fingers scatter back up his shoulders and twine around his neck. He feel different beneath her fingers, but deep down, she knows he's the same. Everything he is now has been the same, lingering just beneath some sort of perfect glamour, or maybe even knit into some kind of magical skin. It's a puzzle her mind wants to work at, right up until impossibly strong hands wrap around her waist and pull her body flush with the very alien one she has been exploring.

Her eyes widen with surprise, even as her mouth is attacked by his. There's a moment where she wonders at the sharpness of his teeth in this form, before her eyelashes flutter shut and she finds herself kissing him back with all the passion of having gone without for what feels like forever. "Loki," she moans softly, her fingers tightening into his skin as he lifts her closer to him. Without warning, she finds herself tossed onto the bed, Loki pinning her down with this new, strange body.

"Even like this?" he says quietly, and it takes Jane a long moment to understand that his words are a question. She pulls him closer, meshing her lips to his cool, narrow ones.

"Even like this," she whispers against his mouth, her heated skin suddenly seeking the contrast of his absurdly cool body. She wraps her legs around his hips and pulls him closer. For a moment she's concerned. She's never claimed to be an astrobiologist. She doesn't even know any theories about how aliens might reproduce. But a reassuring pressure against the very part of her that is begging for friction suggests that apparently she doesn't need to know any. Convergent evolution might just be her new favourite theory, even above relativity.

The thoughts scatter away from her, escaping alongside the breathy moan that winds its way from her as those terribly sharp teeth drag along the slant of her neck. If there's pain, its swallowed up in the heat that's rising in reply. Her fingers curl around his neck, well-manicured nails that still don't feel like her own digging into this toughened skin. He lifts his head to stare at her, red eyes shining in the darkness. "Don't stop," Jane murmurs, her words a plea as her body rises against his, searching out his cold to meet her warm. Her nails bite harder into his blue-hued skin. He hisses lightly, and for a second, Jane loosens her grip. She's used to having no nails at all, and the realization that she might be hurting him strikes her with sudden regret.

"No," he groans quietly, his forehead dropping to her own, "It… feels right."

A shiver runs through her once again and Jane swallows slowly as she digs her nails back into the skin at the top of his spine. He almost trembles in her arms and then he is inspired movement. A hand that trails almost biting cold up her sides, pushing back fabric and sliding under the lace of her bra. His wicked teeth are back at work on her neck, and its impossible for Jane _not_ to drag her nails down the plane of his back. Ragged breathing fills the otherwise silent room. It's not nearly enough.

With a surge of pure will, Jane strips away whatever clothing is between them, sending it to whatever dimension is open to receive it. Right now, there is nothing but his impossible cool body against her overheating skin. There's nothing else in the universe that means anything to her, and in this moment, she's at peace with that. She'll deal with the repercussions of her choice in the morning, when she patches together what is left of her pride. Right now, pride can go to hell, so long as his tongue keeps rasping against the curve of her breast.

The moment he moves just enough, in just the right way, to bring them together in the best way, she arches against him without thought. A strangled noise falls from his throat, and whatever control he'd been clinging to is gone. Without warning, he is sliding into her, a shock of cold against her system that leaves her gasping with surprise and what might just be the most intense arousal she's ever felt.

"Loki," she gasps, fingers biting into the flesh of his shoulders, muscles she doesn't consciously move tightening around him. Her mouth seeks his out with the same urgency that moves their bodies in a tempo that seems bent on acceleration. She's lost in the sensation, in the blinding insanity of this narrow moment, where she gives herself entirely without reservation to a being who doesn't even look human. In nights that are yet to come, when far stranger things have become commonplace to her eyes, Jane accepts that there's at least a part of her that has always wanted such a thing. That maybe its always been inevitable that she love Loki. That maybe no one else would ever be enough.

One of his hands feels blindly for her hip, his roughened fingers digging into the flesh, leaving their mark even as the sensation drives her higher. She doesn't recognize her voice as she pants and moans and pleads for him to continue, to press in just there, to bite harder. If he's taken her to places she hasn't considered before, he's outdoing himself now, and only desire keeps Jane from wondering whether it is simply this form of him that makes her long in such a primitive way for lovemaking to _hurt_ or if she's just so desperate that she needs to know that he is really there, that she'll want the bruises in the morning to remind her that this hasn't just been a dream.

And then, after a perfect thrust, she's shattering around him. A thousand shards of starlight coalescing into a fragile fission of indescribable pleasure. She falls asleep in his arms, held tighter than she can ever previously recall, lulled by the slightly raspy sound of his breathing in this body. Even her curiosity is willing to let her slip into dreams, though she wraps her own arm through his blue-skinned embrace, hoping to hold onto him just a moment longer.

* * *

Daylight filters in through the still-tangled curtains, and Jane wakes blinking into the sunlight, wondering why there's a death grip wrapped around her body. For a moment, she struggles against the bonds before relaxing into memory. She's never woken up before Loki in the past. She's never imagined that he'd hold her like this, like his life depends on this singularly-purposed grasp.

Tentative fingers trail across his arms, and she frowns just slightly to see that he has, at some point in the night, put his frost giant form away. Her fingertips wander across this perfect, deathly pale skin, memories of last night unfolding across her mind. She sighs softly, wiggling closer into his embrace, and wondering when he would have shifted, if he's really held her so tight all through the night.

The thought burns her curious brain, and she wiggles around to look at him. There's a brief fight with his languid limbs, but she's fairly certain she's won the moment his subconscious mind has grasped that she is simply readjusting her position rather than running away. She presses close again, one hand resting on his marble chest, the other propping up her head as she studies his sleeping face. It's a sight she's missed dearly, from the nights when she would wander into her lab and find him unconscious on her couch, exhausted after days of traveling the stars. She wonders dimly, just how tired he must be to have slept longer than her, and to still sleep despite all her moving.

She reaches out with her magic to study this slightly altered face he wears. She can't quite fathom how or when she's become so adept at reading the paths and patterns of magic in the world, but she can feel the fine weave that is tangled in with him. He is, quite literally, stitched together out of magic. With a dawning understanding, Jane accepts that this is the Loki he has put together, the skin he is comfortable in. It's more than a glamour. More than a mask to hide behind. There's intent behind the shaping of every cell, the colouration of every strand of hair. He's constructed something halfway between Jotun and Asgardian and however it is that he believes he should look. He's not quite daydream, but not nightmare either. He hovers somewhere between, ambivalent as his actions and his words.

She loves him with the kind of love that destroys people, she thinks absently. She suspects that one day she will wake up an ancient husk of a woman, with him so far gone over the horizon that she will have nothing but memories to guard her against the loneliness. She'll still choose this every time. A moment here is worth an eternity never knowing this perfect, heart-breaking bliss.

He opens his eyes slowly. A crinkle in the corner of his eyes her first warning before a sliver of vibrant green greets her. Jane stares at him with a trace of a smile on her lips. "You lied," she says, her tone sober through her eyes are laughing at him.

For a moment he looks irate, and she watches him slide his elbows beneath himself to support his weight as he leans up to tower over her, even laying in bed. "What?" he demands, his tone flat.

"You said last night that the Jotun was how you really look," she changes her tone, letting the game in her tone ring through, "But you lied." She cocks her head slightly to the left. "_This_ is how you really look. You put way too much effort into it otherwise."

He sits still for a moment, processing her words before a slow smile creeps across his face. "Yes," he admits as she sticks out her tongue at him, "Yes, you're right."

Jane feels happy. It's a perfect moment, and she finds herself wishing that it could last forever. Loki, with his dark hair ruffled into a mess, green eyes shining at her with shared mirth. He looks entirely different smiling than when he's threatening or worrying or judging or any of his other moods. Like the sun breaking across the skyline or a star going supernova, he's almost difficult to look at. It's too perfectly beautiful and joyous. It's barely even him.

Then suddenly, she is in his lap, and everything that was amazing last night is even better now. Every ecstasy, every touch, every kiss is somehow more real and more intense and more wonderful than ever before. There's a shuddering, fractious moment where she is certain that maybe this _can _last forever.

And then that moment is over. And Loki's arms around her have become bands of steel pulling her so tight she wonders if he intends to ever let her go. Her name is a sob, a platitude, the every wish of a dying man. His face is buried in her neck and her hair, and she knows, with perfect certainty, that the dampness there is tears rather than sweat. And her heart breaks, because she finally understands that this is an _ending_. "Loki," she murmurs, her voice breaking around the edges as she pulls away from him. He stares at her with wild, wet eyes that seem to carry the ghosts of a thousand years (and she has to remind herself that, actually, they do). "What have you done?" she hears herself ask, as if from a million miles away, "Loki, what have you _done?"_


	34. Chapter 34

_This one goes out to jurock, who pointed out that a chapter from Bruce's POV would not be amiss…_

* * *

"Do you believe in redemption, Bruce?"

That Jane Foster would try to speak to him after all that has happened in the past twenty-four hours probably shouldn't come as a surprise. After all, she'd had the nerve to show up in Stark's tower that morning, evil and insane god of lies in tow. Still, there's a part of Bruce that wants to ignore her existence. It's petty, yes, but he had trusted her. He supposes he could blame it on the other guy, everything's pretty black and white for him.

He's not that guy though, and he's made enough mistakes himself that he can (maybe, probably) understand where Jane is coming from. Truth to be told, if a Norse god had showed up in his lab when he was a postdoc, explained that the reason physics doesn't always make sense is because humans have been systematically ignorant of its most important variable, and then offered to explain it all, he probably would have taken up the offer too. At least up until the incident with the gamma radiation. If he closes his eyes and reframes Jane accepting magic lessons from Loki as himself causing the whole mess with gamma radiation… she's still ahead. There's no blood or property damage on her hands.

So instead of ignoring her, he takes a deep breath and turns to look at the petite astrophysicist. Her head is turned away from him, her eyes looking through the walls of glass that subdivide this level, toward the dark figure who leans upon the farthest windows, weight apparently braced on one lifted and armoured forearm. He snorts, "For that guy?" he shakes his head, "No. No, I really don't."

"He doesn't either," she says quietly, her head turning to look him full on. Bruce takes in the pinched expression on her face, the haunted look in her eyes.

"What did he do to you?" he begins, sliding into the seat beside her.

She gives him a wan smile and readjusts the scarf she wears around her neck. "It's not about what he's done to me," she fidgets slightly in her seat. "It's what he's done, in general."

Bruce doesn't feel a shred of pity for the monsters in the dark. There's always a choice. It's a difficult choice, but it is a choice. He knows because he makes it every single day. Jane seems to have more sympathy, however. Maybe she's lived a very protected life (her file supports this), or maybe she's the type who believes that there is good in everyone. For her sake, he keeps silent.

Jane sighs heavily. "I shouldn't say anything," she begins, "But I know that if I say nothing at all, none of you will ever work with him. So it's probably just better if I explain everything I know. Nothing will make sense when we get to Asgard if I don't."

Bruce gives her a carefully measured look. "What?" he keeps his tone light with humour, "Big bad over there made you privy to his plans?"

"He has to trust someone," she replies.

Before today, Bruce wouldn't have believed that five words could rattle him. These five though, have him throwing a look over at the dark figure beyond them. Layers of glass leave him intersected, blurry, indistinct, but they do nothing to hide the tension. Loki is a snake ready to strike, no matter that he seems to be far afield in thought.

"He's not here," Jane interrupts, "I mean, his body is here, but he's gone to make sure the Kilkethian troops are ready. He thinks we'll need them, seeing as how the Gengaxians like him too much to join with the Sifexen Empire."

Bruce stares at Jane for a long moment, "Okay, I heard words. They don't make sense. I just thought you should know, in case it's a seizure or a stroke or…"

Jane smiles at that and Bruce decides not to investigate too deeply the fact that he feels gratified that he's the first to make her do so today. "There's aliens out there, Bruce," she says, her smile taking on the distant quality he's come to appreciate in her. "Hundreds of civilizations sprinkled across the stars, and he's visited so many of them. They," she sighs longingly, "I can't even begin to tell you the stories he's told me."

"Seduced by stories of science," Bruce smiles, "Somehow I'm not surprised." There's a moment where Jane's expression becomes troubled, and Bruce kicks himself for his word choice. "I mean, it sounds exciting," he rushes to explain, "I didn't mean to suggest that you'd let him, you know." There's an awkward weight in the air and Jane's expression is back to being pinched and tired. Bruce rubs his face with a free hand, "I'm sorry," he explains, "We've just all been up all night, trying to figure this out," he pauses a beat. "Did you just say that the Genga-whos like Loki?"

The wan smile makes a reappearance. "Is it so surprising that there might be races out there who like him?" she asks.

"Yeah, but you said they like him too much to fight for him." Bruce is having trouble wrapping his head around all this.

"Ah, yeah," Jane pauses, "That's the thing. Some of the forces think they're fighting _with_ Loki, and some think they're fighting _against_ him."

Bruce braces his elbows on his knees. "I'm listening," he says quietly, peering at Jane from over his glasses.

"The negotiations were taking too long," Jane murmurs, "And apparently not everyone is terribly upset by the thought of Asgard being under new management. As long as Phyre buys her time, she still looks like a good guy, or, good enough." She takes a deep breath, "The only leverage then, is to make those who can't be bought or urged otherwise, worried about the new management. And, she just happened to be crazy enough to marry Loki."

Bruce feels his eyes widen with incredulity. He looks from Jane to the indistinct shape that is Loki. "So he what? Tore a swath through the known universe so they'd come fight him and the missus?"

Jane runs a trembling hand through her hair. "Yeah," she breathes, "That's exactly what he did."

Bruce sits back. "So, more innocent lives tossed on the burner, and you want us to help this guy?"

"I believe the phrase goes, the enemy of mine enemy is my friend." The voice that speaks carries an imperious note, and Bruce finds he can't jerk his head around fast enough. Behind them, on the other side of the heavy, mahogany board table, is Loki, lounging lazily in a black leather boardroom chair. His emerald eyes glance possessively over Jane's form, and Bruce swallows the urge to smash the guy. Being someone's teacher suggests a certain amount of respect to his mind. Respect Loki really doesn't seem to show for Jane.

"I still don't see how what happens on Asgard is any of our business," Bruce says instead, doing his best to keep his tone civil. If only for Jane's sake. He really doesn't need Loki baiting out the big guy in a place made up of glass walls.

For his part, Loki looks only mildly concerned. "That's unfortunate," he says, sounding entirely insincere, "But I'm certain Thor will understand. Fair weather friends and all that." He slides gracefully to his feet and extends an arm to Jane, "See, dearest Jane? Not worth the time."

Bruce grinds his teeth. From the corner of his eye, he can still see the dark shape of Loki's form against the far window. He suspects now that it is entirely possible that there's any number of decoy illusions around the building. For all he knows, he may not even face the real Loki now. "Of course we would help Thor!" he hears himself snap, sounding frustrated in his own ears. "But how do we know you aren't lying?"

"You don't," Loki taunts back gleefully, evidently enjoying the emotional anguish of others.

"Stop it," Jane mutters, one of her pale, thin hands slapping against the chest piece of his armour, even as she slips the other into his proffered grip.

Snake-like eyes meet Bruce's over Jane's head, an expression of undisguised pleasure on his face. His smirk suggests that he's won something, as if Jane's accepting of his arm means something more than that she's less suspicious of him than those who actually had to face him in the depths of his insanity. As if it means that she's chosen him over _them_.

"But, my Jane," he purrs, deft hands rearranging the scarf around her neck, "They've made it very clear that they don't intend to help. And we don't _need _them, in any case."

Bruce feels his blood pressure rise at the way the monster licks his lips over Jane's name, the way he so declaratively suggests possession over her. The way she simply sighs and closes her eyes to shut him out in response. It is as if she has grown weary of fighting him and his insinuations.

She pauses, wavering slightly on her feet. "Was it really the only way?" she whispers.

The words are obviously meant for Loki, though they are a remnant of the conversation that she's held with Bruce. Despite everything else, Bruce is decidedly interested in the answer.

"Was what the only way?" Loki snaps, irritation lining his face as he peers down at Jane. For a moment, Bruce feels inexplicably proud of the tiny woman. She's not a completely lost cause.

"Murder, lies, deceit," she waves her hand, "The usual?"

"It's the only way _I_ could think of doing it," Loki snaps back, displeasure written across his thin lips.

Jane sighs. "I forget sometimes," she murmurs, leaning inexplicably into the subject of what Bruce is beginning to suspect might not have really been a reprimand. "That you don't regret any of it," she finishes, her feet already headed for the room's door.

"Why should I?" he spits, a trace of anger flashing in his eyes. "They're all insignificant…"

"Then why exactly were you so upset about it this morning?" Jane demands suddenly, spinning on a heel.

Bruce watches the scene with the suspicion that his presence has been entirely forgotten.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Loki hisses. His expression is a frozen mask of displeasure and disquiet.

"Yes," Jane is faintly flushed now as she closes the distance between them, one finger raised and hitting him squarely in the chest, "You do." She jabs the finger against him, "The whole... you've never said my name like that!"

Bruce is vaguely fascinated. He's tossed the guy around like a rag doll, but he still doubts he'd go toe-to-toe with Loki if he wasn't certain the other guy could take care of things. That tiny Jane Foster with the caffeine-addiction and propensity for melancholy and mathematics will is strange, to say the least.

"You think I feel remorse for any of _them?_" Loki says quietly, and the tone is possibly the most chilling Bruce has heard. Because it does, in fact, suggest that he doesn't feel a drop of regret for anything he's done. "Do you imagine," he continues, broad hands catching hold of Jane's shoulders, "That I feel even a moment's hesitation over something as inconsequential as taking a life?"

There's a part of Bruce that wants to walk over, to remove those pale fingers from Jane's person, and crack a joke about how here is the guy he remembers with all the cats running loose and tearing things up in his head. Somehow, he just can't though. It's like watching a train wreck in slow motion. There's something in his very gut that is on the verge of retching, because he sees now that he's been studiously ignorant of a very salient fact.

"No," says Jane coolly, "No, I don't." She looks up at Loki for a long moment, one hand reaching up and drawing down the side of his face in a tender caress. "That's why I'm worried," she whispers softly. The scarf around her neck loosens and slips down the line of her throat, exposing wicked bruises that hint at unnaturally sharp teeth. "You're supposed to be a monster," she continues, "And I can't imagine anything terrible enough to make you…"

Her words are lost to the ages, because Loki chooses that moment to pull her into him, jerking her face up to meet his. The kiss seems like it should be violent, but instead it is indescribably _tender_. It's a momentary brushing of lips followed by a slow separation. "I regret," and Loki's voice is ragged in a way that Bruce hasn't imagined possible, "I regret the harm I have brought upon you, Jane Foster."

"We're going to die tomorrow, aren't we?" Jane asks calmly.

There's a long moment where Bruce wishes he could find the will to move, to scream, to somehow give voice to the sensation of having lost touch with reality.

"Only if we're lucky," Loki replies, his mouth a bitter smirk, even as his eyes express something Bruce would have thought beyond a creature like him.

Finally, a sound manages to escape Bruce. A strangled breath that doesn't quite sound like a word.

It's Loki who turns to observe him. "You're still here," he says blankly, as if surprised by the fact. For her part, Jane seems unaffected. Though, Bruce considers, hearing that death is the lucky forecast for tomorrow might do a lot to put things like mortification into perspective. The other option, that she has neglected to mention this aspect of her relationship with Loki purely for political reasons rather than shame or horror, isn't one he can entertain at the present moment.


	35. Chapter 35

_Another rather short chapter, and after such a long wait! I feel terrible doing this to all of you, faithful readers. But I figure something is better than nothing. Happily, the reasons for my lack of rapid updates have been good ones – New Year's, a birthday (not mine), and actual paying work… but enough about me._

* * *

There's a traitor in his skin. A traitor who steals his tongue and his pride and wrings the most exquisite feeling of guilt from his icy heart. He doesn't feel a shred of remorse for the blood he's spilled, the lives he's taken, the crimes he's committed. But this traitor within him takes one look at Jane Foster and wants to spend the rest of eternity repenting this single sin.

It's love.

He's accepted this, finally. This traitor that has created exceptions in all of space and time for Jane is love. He wants nothing more than to cast it out. There's no room in this for love. No space for the hesitations or the courage or strength that love brings. He's not a hero. Love cannot inspire him to great things, it can only throw wrenches between the gears of his machinations. It can only hurt them both.

Because after tomorrow, Loki will be gone.

She knows. Of course, she knows. After weeks apart, her awareness of him has flared into its full power, and she can read his very intent. She's also decided to put the fact aside. She's pulled him in as close as she can, striped away whatever walls were still left between them, and done her best to make him feel whole and real and loved.

Sometimes he hates her. Because its never been his intent to be anything except what he is: the Liesmith, the Destroyer, the Exiled King. The monster of her nightmares. Yet she seems determined to love him anyway, and she has an uncanny ability to love a monster while resting on the knife edge of becoming one herself. She's holding herself in check, waiting for whatever pivotal moment will confront her, and its so much more than he's ever dreamed a human could be possible of. How could he not love her?

He wasn't supposed to. Now leaving her will feel like letting her go, and he isn't supposed to be capable of doing something noble. Especially not for love.

* * *

It's five o'clock, and Tony Stark is gazing longingly at the bottle of scotch on the sideboard. Surprisingly, he's resisting. Loki suspects he's trying to put on a strong front for the rest of those gathered in the room. For his part, Loki remains slumped into a chair at the back of the room, shadowed and veiled in invisibility. He's not impressed with any of this, but there are certain benefits to be had from bringing the Avengers in alongside.

"Are we certain we want to do this?" Natasha Romanov asks. Her hands are folded in front of her on the surface of the boardroom table they sit at. They remain perfectly still, betraying nothing.

"Not much of a choice, is it?" Bruce mutters back, leaning his head into a hand that fists through his hair. "Jane's going to help him whether we do or not. There might as well be some measure of damage control."

"And you're damage control?" Natasha counters, "Just how bad do you think this is going to be?"

The room goes quiet at the sting in her voice. She looks strangely surprised. "Are we really thinking of dying for this?"

The men in the room share a series of questioning glances. "How can we just leave Thor out there?" Steve asks the room, "He'd come running if it was for one of us."

"So there's the million dollar question," Tony says, "Do the ends justify the means?" He takes a moment to draw in a long breath, "Do we go ahead and trust reindeer games and his pet astrophysicist?"

"Don't call her a pet," Bruce groans, closing his eyes.

"Do we want to go with enchanted astrophysicist?" Tony adds, digging his own hole, "Cause I can go fairy tale on this if you need me to. Though," he pauses, "Usually the kiss _breaks_ the spell…"

"Shut. Up. Tony." Natasha says with venom in her eyes, "Just leave it alone."

Hands raised in surrender, Tony stifles a laugh and spins lightly from side to side in his seat. "I just think its an interesting twist."

"Leave it alone," Natasha repeats, her eyes flashing sideways to where Bruce sits, a vaguely despondent look on his face.

"So some things can't be unseen," Tony drawls, getting to his feet and heading over to the sideboard. He tosses a few cubes into a glass along with a splash of scotch and slips it into Bruce's limp grasp. "It's not exactly new news that she's got a thing for aliens."

The glass in Bruce's grasp shakes violently. He stares at it with narrow focus. "I just don't understand," Bruce says quietly, "Why Jane? Why is she special?"

"She just happened to be in the right place at the right time," Clint says from the place where he's been standing behind the chair meant for him, arms braced on the table. "She's the one Thor ran into, the human he had the most significant interactions with, and she happened to understand what was going on. The only thing that is surprising is that he didn't already have tabs on her the last time he was on Earth."

"So that's it?" Bruce asks, "Just dumb luck?"

There's a long pause as the room considers the question. Is it all just dumb luck? A mad headlong rush of events that have them considering traveling to another realm, in the hopes that their enemy isn't lying about his brother being a prisoner in his own home?

"Are we doing this?" Natasha presses on.

"Yeah," Tony slips the untouched scotch out of Bruce's hands, "See another realm? Fight in an intergalactic war? I'd say we're doing this." He takes a long sip of the scotch, and licks his lips. "Yeah, I need to go explain this all to Pepper."

"I guess I'll handle Director Fury?" Natasha asks, the offer in her words sounding only half-hearted.

"Probably better that he knows," Steve agrees, "Just in case we don't all come back." His eyes are gravely serious, and the room's atmosphere is somber as its occupants leave it.

All its occupants except Bruce. In the back corner, Loki's eyes gleam dangerously. "I mean it," Bruce says without leaving his seat. "I want to know why you chose Jane." Silence doesn't deter the man who hides a monster, "I know you're in here. I know you've been listening." He pulls out some sort of small device, "Made this. Picks up on exotic dark matter readings. And you're just," he blows a stream of air out between his teeth, "You're just off the charts. And Jane, she's not that far behind. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but Jane's a lot more powerful than a human with a few months of training ought to be, isn't she? I want to know why. I want to know what you've turned her into."

Loki considers the questions for a moment. They aren't entirely surprising in that they are very valid observations. The problem, of course, is that he doesn't really know the answer to them. Jane surpassed his wildest dreams. Her skill, her adaptation to magic, the affinity it has for her, its all far more than he ever suspected.

Loki rises from his seat in the back of the room, letting the veil of invisibility fall as he strides the short distance to Bruce's side. Quick fingers scoop up the tiny device Bruce has left upon the table. A thin, metallic needle swings far into the red. It's primitive, at best, but the dial does certainly indicate that something worthy of red is present. Loki stares at it for a long time. It isn't an impractical thing for a non-magic user to have. He places it back down upon the table. "Where does Jane fall on that scale?" he asks lightly, his eyes never leaving the needle's point.

"Somewhere around the middle," Bruce replies, his tone suggesting that he's beyond the possibility of feeling surprise. "But that's still ridiculous. The two girls. One barely registers and the other gets about an eighth of the way up. Its unreal. And Jane kept insisting that she was taking lessons from them."

"She probably was," Loki says, a frown falling across his pinched lips. He knew Jane was cloaked in magic, knew she'd taken to pulling it in around her, just as he had when he was a child. And he knew she carried more along with her than she should have been able to. Though, he'd always suspected it had been the magic rubbing off from him.

"What you're measuring," he says finally, "Is the amount of magic that's following the user. Those who use magic more often or who are more open to its suggestion have more directing their movements, their paths through space and time."

"You're saying the magic moves its users?" Bruce asks, "It controls you?"

Loki feels his jaw tighten. "It will if one isn't careful."

"So this magic could be controlling Jane?" Bruce demands. The insinuation behind it is enough to curl Loki's lips into a jagged smirk.

"Not in the way you're hoping." He slides over to the door of the room, eager now to be gone. But he pauses, because he must tell someone at least some fraction of this. The traitor in him won't let him get away without it. Not when it is so painfully obvious that this man is willing to believe the best for Jane. "Truthfully," he says, the word tasting like poison in his mouth, "I don't know why the magic reacts the way it does to Jane. It likes her. It senses potential in her. And that makes it much easier for her to learn. She has more raw power available, so to speak."

He hears the sound of furniture moving behind him. "It is dangerous?" Bruce asks, his voice giving away nothing.

"Yes," Loki admits.

"Then why did you…"

Loki's hands clench shut into fists. If he'd known, would he still have chosen this path? Would he take all this back, if it meant that Jane could be happy and safe in her normal, mortal life?

"I'd take it back," he hears himself say, as if from a distance. "I'd take it all back, if it meant she would be safe. If it meant she wouldn't… hurt." The words are harsh in his ears. They aren't his sort of words. They aren't his species of sentiment. He's not comfortable with the way they leave him open and exposed. He realizes with a start that he has his back to a creature who could, in all likelihood, kill him with its bare hands. The traitor forces him to trust.

"You love her." Bruce's voice holds a note of wonder. "I mean, I didn't imagine you could love anything but power."

Loki hears little but the rushing of his own blood in his ears. There's a strong desire in him to kill this man, who dares to presume anything about him. Doubly so, when he considers all that has come to pass. But he doesn't. After tomorrow, Jane will need friends who know the truth. Friends who can help her move on, help her survive, help her cope with the damage he's done to her life. She will need someone who understands what it is like to be not quite human. He leaves the room without looking backwards.

It's almost unfortunate, because for a moment, there's something like respect in Bruce's eyes. If asked now, in that singular moment, Bruce might even say he could believe in redemption.

The moment passes.


	36. Chapter 36

_I'm insanely pleased I got this finished all this evening. So, its another short chapter, but its still two chapters in the same day! I hope everyone enjoys!_

* * *

Perhaps someone slept that night. Steve Rogers did not. Like any weary soldier, he remained awake, musing on all that has come to pass and all that yet will. He stands now, one hand flat upon the glass windows before him. The entirety of a city spreads itself before him, so many lights below that the stars and the moon seem pale and wasted in comparison. Sometimes he wonders what his purpose is, being here, in this time and place. Tonight is one of those times.

"Soldier," the voice cuts through the room with the abrupt tone of a man who is used to being heard.

"Director," Steve acknowledges with a tilt of his head. He has no need to turn to face the speaker, watching his reflection in the glass instead. He knows the one-eyed man with a familiarity that has yet to breed trust. He doesn't believe their relationship will ever come to be described as warm.

"Now," begins the man, "What's this I hear about you taking your team on some kind of extra-terrestrial romp?" His voice carries a grating sarcasm and displeasure that transmits his opinion of this fiasco.

"I wasn't aware that the Avengers were _my _team," Steve says, still without turning. His voice carries surprise. He certainly has never framed this motley band as being under his orders.

"Uh huh," Fury's tone inclines toward disbelief, "Even Tony Stark waits for your call. How do you figure they aren't _your _team?"

It's a pointed question, and Steve understands the implication. The twists of fate that threw them together have framed him as the responsible one of the group. He is, by all accounts, their leader. As such, their fates will ultimately rest on the calls he makes, and one leader to another, Fury is putting this call into question.

Steve sighs as he turns. His shoulders straighten. "What else can we do?" he asks. His voice carries a certain compulsion to it. Behind the words runs the loyalty of brothers at arms, the integrity of all that is noble in the human race. His words are quiet and sound simple from the surface. It is somewhere beneath them that the weight of meaning and feeling lie.

"So you're going for Thor, then?" Fury's expression betrays nothing but a general wariness and distrust of the world. He's not beyond the emotional call to aid that the Captain feels, but he treads with less eager steps.

"For Thor," Steve agrees, "And for the fact that it's the right thing to do."

"The right thing to do," Fury echoes as the corners of lips edge into a bitter smile. "How many wars and conflicts are justified as being the 'right thing to do'? Who makes that call, Captain? Do you?" He pauses, his stony expression searching Steve's very soul. "Do you get to decide the fate of humanity?"

Steve stands very still. He fights the desire to let his gaze fall, to be chastened by such a man. He reminds himself of the gall of this man, of the subterfuge and the lies and the trickery that underscore his actions. He is "The Spy," to borrow Tony's words.

"We should all have a say in the fate of humanity," he says finally, "But since the majority of the world still doesn't have any idea of the scale of the playing field, then yes, I suppose I do. For now, anyway."

It's almost imperceptible, but Steve watches Fury's jaw tighten. "Alright then," he says, seeming to admit surrender. Steve waits for the catch. "I can let you take a small platoon of…"

"With all due respect, Director," Steve interrupts, "I'm more comfortable without SHIELD involvement."

Fury stares at him for a long moment. "So, you intend to represent Earth, but don't intend to take any forces besides your small team?"

"Yes, Sir," Steve nods tightly, "I believe you would agree we work better that way." He holds the old man's gaze, "I'd rather not put lives at risk which don't need to be."

Fury watches him quietly. "And, Soldier?" he prompts, with compassion in his tone.

"And," Steve swallows hard, "If things go wrong, I'd rather we have as much firepower here as possible."

"So you accept that this could be a trap?"

Steve nods slowly. "We have discussed it, Sir, and we're prepared to deal with that possibility."

Fury nods his own head slowly. "I'd say eventuality, myself," he begins, "But I guess its better to have some hope."

A short laugh escapes Steve's chest. "Hope?" he murmurs, turning once again to look out over the still-broken city below, "I guess you could call it that."

* * *

The room in which Steve stands is fairly simple. It's one of several rooms outfitted with a long bar and comfortable couches. High above the city, Tony affectionately calls these his "party suites." It's almost ironic then, that Steve finds himself in one when his feelings are so much less than celebratory in nature. The blue and pink scone lights behind the bar illuminate an empty space for many long minutes after Fury leaves. It isn't really empty though, and for that, the slip of a creature who remains is truly sorry.

"It is hope, you know," she says quietly. Her blue eyes meet his in the reflection she makes upon the glass window before him.

If Steve is to be honest, he really likes the way the pink lights catch in her hair. He liked it the other night at the bar (and doesn't that just feel like an eternity ago!) and he likes it equally well now. He thinks, with more than passing fancy, that she looks like a fairy or a pixie. He remembers the German version of the fairy tales. Fairies bite.

She draws a little closer, hesitancy defining her movements. "When we were in Greece," she says as the room draws close and quiet around her, "I heard the loveliest story. It was about a woman who opened a box, and out of it came all the most terrible things in the world came out of it. Disease and sadness and suffering and war and all the things that plagued humankind. And hope. Last of all, in the bottom of the box, was hope. The last gift of cruel gods."

"Pandora," Steve says, the name falling from his lips despite his resolve to never say another word to the creature. "Her name was Pandora. And curiosity was her sin."

"Curiosity is natural," she replies without a trace of guile, "The gods were wrong."

Steve turns finally, anguish in his heart as he looks down at the tiny blonde who stands just a few feet away from him. She looks ready to cry, "I'm sorry," she whispers, "I know I shouldn't have been here. I shouldn't have listened. It was rude and…"

Steve shakes his head, looks as if he is about to say something, then stops. He has no words for Bryn. She's something out of place here. She reminds him of women from his era. So quiet and prepossessing, she fades into the background behind her vivacious and colourful companion. But Steve has never been able to help himself from noticing her.

She swallows hard. "I shouldn't even have come here at all," she says with sorrow in her eyes, "But I wanted you to know…" she bites her lips, looks down and away. "I just wanted you to know."

Steve feels his heart contract painfully. There was almost something here, he can tell. Almost something that might have been wonderful. It's in the glances they've shared, the secret smiles, the snippets of conversations. If she were any other girl… if she were a girl – but she isn't. She's an alien creature; immortal and impossible and potentially belonging to the enemy, whoever that is exactly. But she wants him to know, and that's so much more than he has had in what feels like forever.

"Thank you," he says finally, struggling to find something that he could say, "And I wish things were different."

"I know," she replies, her blue eyes shining as she blinks with careful intent, "I do too."

She leaves the room without looking back, and if Steve hears the crumpled sob that escapes her lips as she flees, he is too much a gentleman to ever comment on it.

It isn't the first time that he wishes he could be as brave and as stupid as Jane Foster, and simply forget that there are some walls too high to scale, some deserts too wide to cross, and some hurts that simply cannot be borne.

* * *

When the day finally breaks, it stains the sky red and Steve is haunted by old rhymes that make him wonder again at the wisdom in this. There is, however, no going back now. He sets his steps with purpose and clears his conscience as best as he can as he shrugs himself into the stars and stripes.

With heavy footsteps, he reconstructs himself from the bottom up, and by the time the elevator doors open, he is standing as tall and as strong as he ever has. There are no traces of hesitancy or fear or anguish in his expression. He strides out onto the platform above the city, blue eyes drinking in the preparations being made and the figures that populate this narrow band of skyline.

Warily, his eyes drift to the tall, dark figure that stands nearest to the edge. He'd say the figure is studying the city beneath him, but there is nothing studious in his gaze. If Loki were easy to understand, he'd expect to see the wrath of a villain confounded. But there's no trace of sentiment to be read from the pale planes of Loki's face and no betrayal of emotion in the set of his shoulders. He is a readable as a statue made of marble. And that does not bring Steve any comfort whatsoever.

Jane is a study in contrasts. She flits around the platform with the energy of a hummingbird, her brown curls catching in the pull of the wind. She directs an already-suited Tony into positioning some strange tangled mass of metal, and bounces between that and Loki's still figure with tangible excitement. He understands that they, this strangely mismatched pair, are somehow capable of opening a bridge across space; that the metallic mass Tony has constructed is capable of maintaining that bridge. It is their only path of retreat, should things go wrong and their only way home, should Loki somehow not make it through to the end. From what he understands, Loki does not expect to make it through.

Natasha taps him on the shoulder, giving a sharp nod towards the pair. "They say they're ready," she says, her fingers busy in the work of feeling out the extra clips she's secreted about her person. Just behind her, Clint shakes out his bow, his gaze already hardened in his far-seeing way.

"And we are too?" Steve asks, his eyes searching the space around them for Bruce.

"We are too," says the man in question just behind him. Steve turns to look at Bruce, who gives him a half-hearted smile. A small device twists its way through Bruce's fingers, and he looks down at the small object with an expression of mild surprise, as if he had half-forgotten its existence. "Here," he says suddenly, "You should carry this. The other guy won't get any use from it."

Steve accepts the token, eyes sweeping across the dial and the fine needle that wavers slightly. "What is it?" he asks, knowing that it must have a purpose.

Bruce shifts slightly, "I thought it measured the strength of a magic user," he begins, "But apparently it actually measures the raw magic available to the user." He shrugs, "I'm still a bit fuzzy on the distinction."

Steve rolls it between his fingers, tucking it into a pocket. "Might come in handy," he acknowledges.

Bruce gives him a funny sort of half-smile before walking out into the clear morning air. He shades his eyes and looks out over the city. "Feel like we're always up high," he observes to no one in particular.

"Captain?" Tony asks, "We going any time today?"

Steve turns back towards the place where the bridge will form, and finds himself very suddenly pierced by a vividly green gaze. The idle thought, that he would still rather send his shield hurtling into Loki's chest than follow him through space, crosses his mind. As quickly as it enters, it is dismissed. Jane has placed one of her tiny hands onto Loki's forearm, pulling his attention down towards herself. Her lips move, though the words are pulled away by the wind. Loki smiles bitterly as a shadow crosses his eyes. "Are you ready, Captain?" he asks without lifting his gaze.

"Let's get going," Steve replies.

* * *

_I couldn't help myself - I absolutely had to give Fury a cameo. I just couldn't see him not having an opinion on all this! And for those of you who have wondered where things are going for Steve and Bryn - hopefully this brings some closure to that line. Sometimes the what-ifs and what-might-have-beens are more beautiful than the things that actually are. And sometimes people do what they must to protect their hearts. It's a contrast to Jane and Loki, anyway, who took the leap (whether they had intended to or not). _


	37. Chapter 37

_Blarg… this is the most difficult chapter I've had to write in this entire story. Every other chapter has flown onto the page. Not so with this one. So I apologize for its imperfections. There's just so much exposition to get through here, and so many introductions and explanations and battle… and none of these are my strong points. To put it into perspective, this chapter was supposed to be in Jane's POV, and it came out in Clint Barton's. I hope it isn't horrible._

* * *

As far as Clint Barton is concerned, he would rather have never had to see Loki again, let alone be somehow working with him. He doesn't trust him. More than that, he doesn't trust himself to be in the same room as him. There's been several times in the past day that his fingers have itched for the feel of a taunt bow string and the notch of an arrow. He had promised himself an eye.

There's more to it than that though. When he thinks about what happened, he describes himself as having been unmade. Everything that was him was stripped down, then built into little more than a machine. It scares him to remember it, because it forces him to face the hard truth: that he isn't ruthless or efficient or intelligent because he fights for the right side. He's all those things by the most basic parts of his own nature. His time with Loki has permanently marked him because it has forced him to accept that the darkness in him (in all of them) is real. Rob them of their morals and values, and they would still be just as talented at what they do.

The sun is arriving sluggishly, a blood red smear overlaying the purple haze of morning smog. It casts the two figures that stand on the edge of Tony Stark's landing ledge into silhouette. The woman's hair tosses in the wind, tousled into a disarray that her body language mirrors. The devil at her side is in the shape of a man, though even that seems strained now. He isn't how Clint remembers. He's gone from looking more or less human to looking like something otherworldly. He's changed, and while the physical aspects are a clue, he can't quite read what the psychological effects might have been.

"I'm not sure what she sees in him," Natasha says as she steps out of the building behind him.

Clint flashes her a critical glance. He supposes she intends it as humour, but he's hardly in a laughing mood. The pair standing before them are too still, their movements too earnest, the murmured words between them too hushed to be taken lightly. He thought, at first, that perhaps Jane was one of the type who was attracted to the madness and the violence and the blood. It isn't so difficult a conclusion, when one considers just how long she ran around the building on Tony's dime, blatantly lying about her purpose and her motives. She's far from a moral paragon.

It isn't that way though. He raises his head in a nod towards the pair and watches in silence as Loki leans in towards the woman. There's the lightest brush of a kiss, and then the tender caress of fingers along Jane's cheekbone. The evil god has wiped away the tears a mortal woman is shedding out of love. "She sees something," he says with finality in his tone.

Natasha is almost eerily still beside him. "Do you," she begins, her voice breaking off and dying away. She looks terribly fragile in that moment, just a pale, pretty woman dressed in black leather and firearms.

Clint clenches his jaw before he speaks. "When I was… He's a good leader. You wouldn't think it, the way things went down, but during all the preparations, he was perfect. You had this sense that he believed in you, and depended on you, and would trust you to carry him to the end of the world, and you believed that he'd do the same for you. I've never seen a commanding officer with that kind of faith and trust in his people. Never seen people so inspired." He breaks off. He's said too much.

Natasha has fixed him with a rather intense stare, "I imagine its easy to trust people who's minds you control."

There's a part of him (the violated part) that wants to agree. There's another part that says that the woman standing there in Loki's arms has her full and entire right mind. That a real monster shouldn't be able to be loved, shouldn't be capable of wiping away tears with anything approaching tenderness. Then again, perhaps that isn't the real definition of a monster.

But Natasha isn't done yet. Her features have grown hard as she considers the things that he himself is probably too scared to consider. "Do you wonder," she says finally, "How we'll be remembered?"

The question sits heavily between them for a long moment. "That depends on if future generations decide we're in the right," Clint says, shifting slightly.

"We don't know anything about Asgard," Natasha says, finally getting to the heart of what has been eating at her mind. "We know that they have a king, which suggests a monarchy, which means they probably don't have democracy. We have no idea how they treat their people. All we've seen is their sovereign princes. One of whom is a pretty decent guy, the other who decided that the way to get over finding out he was adopted was to take over a world." She turns to face Clint, "What kind of system produces individuals capable of even conceiving of the conquest of a world? And, are we sure we want to be supporting that system?"

There's a trace of panic in Natasha's eyes and for the first time, Clint understands that there may be something bigger at stake than damage control and helping out a buddy. This is humanity taking a side that they know nothing about. This could be them throwing in with the extremist government that uses their citizens as slaves, that threatens stability, that commits atrocities. A chill runs down his spine.

The pair of them stand still for a long time, watching Loki even as Tony sweeps in with the device that will supposedly support a bridge between worlds. They remain still as Jane begins to flutter around the ledge, apparently preparing things that don't really need to be prepared. A breath of laughter escapes Clint.

"What?" Natasha murmurs at his side.

"I just realized Jane Foster's a scientist. She's never seen a battle before. Probably never even been in any real danger."

Natasha considers, "There was that fight she got in the middle of. Fired an icicle through solid steel plating."

"Not entirely helpless then," Clint concedes.

"But stupidly excited." Clint casts a sideways glance at Natasha. The sun has traded red for gold, and the light spills across her red hair, bringing out burning highlights. She rests against the side of the building, her body feigning calm.

"Admit it," he says, "You're excited too." She makes a face at him, mocking the enthusiasm that has filled his voice. "We get to see another planet," he insists as he drops to the case he had left at his feet, "Even if we have to spend it waging war."

"Maybe we can take a vacation after," Natasha replies lightly, tossing her hair back in a careless manner as she straightens her body in response to Steve's incoming presence.

Things go quickly then, and its only a few minutes before Clint finds himself standing just a few feet away from Jane and her device, and the alien they've decided to trust. Tony shouts something to Steve, but Clint finds himself mesmerized by the minute give and take between the two people beside him. He watches as Jane raises her hand, placing it upon the bracer of Loki's armour with a slow hesitancy that says as much as the sorrowful expression on her face. Amazingly, in the fraction of time it takes for Loki's head to turn, Jane's expression has turned to something encouraging. Faithful belief and strength radiate from her in a way that could almost be described as fierce. "You don't lack conviction," she says, shaking her head, though her eyes never leave his. "You have more than anyone else I've ever met. You just haven't decided what to invest it in yet."

For a moment, Loki seems to consider her words. There's something in his eyes that says that Jane's words are a balm to what must be an exceptionally battered soul. The moment fades and a bitter smile creeps over Loki's lips. His expression tells her to let it go. Clint recognizes the look. He's seen it before, on the faces of men who leave their loved ones for the last time.

There are words directed at someone else, and then Clint watches in silence as the machine gears up. Something unspoken falls between the pair before him, and there's a blinding flash of light. Light and colour spin before Clint's eyes and while he's left with the fleeting impression of stars and galaxies streaking away into eternity, the kaleidoscopic effect is too overwhelming for much to process. Vertigo grabs hold of his body with a violent grasp and pulls him forward so that he is racing, streaming, flying, melting, crashing into solid ground.

With an aching gasp, Clint lands heavily on his back. The air escapes his lungs in a rush, and he's momentarily glad that his sling of arrows and his bow were in his hands rather than on his back. He blinks, consciousness swimming as he fights off his winded state. There's a million billion stars above him, coalescing into nebulae shaded in green and red and orange. Wherever they are, it isn't Kansas.

It takes a second or two for his hands to recover motion. When they do, he lets his aching fingers fall open, slipping free of straps and the cool carbon fibre of his bow. Bare hands fall flat upon the finest sand he has ever felt, and Clint has the sudden realization that this was the _soft _landing. Sitting up, he finds himself as breathless as before, though this time, the air catching in his throat is the fault of the view.

They lie in various positions of pained landing upon a beach so white and pure that it shimmers beneath the miraculous starlight above. The ocean that laps at the sparkling shore is like nothing he has ever imagined. It seems to be liquid space-time, if he had to name the stuff: the illusion of water created by the spilling of constellations and galaxies wetter than the Milky Way.

Not every member of their party lies upon the ground. Loki stands above them, a dark sentinel staring out across the cosmos. He turns, just slightly, revealing Jane's presence in his arms, evidently scooped out of air before her own crash landing could be achieved. With wide eyes and parted lips, Jane looks almost childlike, full of innocent wonder and awe. Her head turns left to right, the force of it shifting her entire body, though her arms remain tight upon Loki. There's a hint of pleasure in his expression that seeps through, his green eyes lighting up in a reflection of Jane's joy.

"It's beautiful," Jane whispers.

Clint turns his gaze to follow hers, and is left shaken. Asgard shines from within itself. Every tree, every cliff face, every sparkling waterfall, seems to emit a soft glow. Above it all rise towers and structures of ivory and gold. The sky melts directly into space. There is no star to call a sun, only the diffuse shine of the innumerable stars and stellar formations above them. It isn't night though. There is too much light filling this world, spilling from the very pores of it, falling down upon it, tracing everything in a sort of perfection that has even Tony Stark struck dumb at the sight.

Clint stares at the buildings. "What's that?" he asks, breaking the spell they have all been under.

Loki spares him a momentary glance. His eyes suggest that until he spoke, they had been forgotten. There's the trace of a sneer across his lips. "Sifexen battleship," he says as he gestures tightly at the dull grey hulk of metal that can be seen lazily drifting beside several of the towers. As Clint watches the spaceship, he wonders exactly what the scale is of this place. The ship seems small beside the towers, but there are hatches and portholes and jutting spikes that suggest that the ship is immense. "They've only sent one then," Loki continues, his voice carrying a hint of amusement, "The Alfen must have dragged them here on the premise of their trade agreement."

"Then they're already here," Jane says, her voice quiet as she slips out of Loki's arms. Her body is stiff, her eyes fearful. Whatever it is Loki is talking about, she seems to be the only one with any ability to decipher meaning. "We need to get going," she urges, though her voice is tight.

Loki gives her a stiff nod, and surveys the rest of them with an air that is decidedly regal and assessing. With the exception of Bruce, they have all managed to get somewhat to their feet. They cast glances around themselves, checking each other for injuries in an entirely surreptitious manner. Within a second, their eyes have gathered upon Bruce, who still sits in the sand. His gaze seems to be miles away. His mouth hangs just slightly open. It takes him longer than it should to register the stares of those around him. "Right," he says, jerking to his feet, "I just needed a minute – to process." He looks to Loki and Jane, "What do you need?"

Clint watches Loki and Jane share a look that seems to discuss next steps without the use of a single word. "We just need time," Jane says finally.

"A line of defense," Loki adds, "Wouldn't be amiss." His eyes point towards a series of low-lying hills maybe a mile down and up from the beach. There's a jagged line of figures moving down them, chased by what seems to be a horde of armoured Shih Tzus with lasers mounted to their backs.

Clint blinks, a bemused expression on his face. Beside him, he can hear Natasha smothering a laugh. She lifts a hand to cover her smirk, "We need to protect you from tiny doggies?"

Loki looks at her with irritation etched across a stony face. "Do not underestimate the Triblexian Advance Scout Force," he spits. "But for the record, I was more concerned about the incoming Fire Giants those 'tiny doggies' are about to pin against us."

Clint turns on his heel and realizes that the scale of things really is all off here. The 'tiny doggies' barely reach the heel of the things they are chasing. Which means the fire giants might well be rather giant, and desperate to outrun the laser-shooting dogs, if their movement is any indicator. "Captain?" Clint prompts, "I'm starting to think we might want to get to the job."

Steve snaps into action, directing Tony into the air, sending Bruce into the field ahead of them, and simply telling him to get up high. Clint's already in motion, an arrow in hand before he's even reached the top of the dune. He falls to one knee and gets the nearest giant into his sights. The fire giants are ugly things with blackened red skin wrapped around a twisted, semi-humanoid form. They still react to an exploding arrow to the eye socket, however.

The giants seem to slow as one of their own explodes into a soupy mess. Black blood splatters across those nearest to their now dead comrade. They stare down at the fallen creature, then look back up at the tiny human crossing the green plain before them. Bruce strides confidently, calmly ripping the shirt from his own back. The discarded fabric flutters to the grass behind him. The giants look back at the crowd of hyper-active fur that is coming ever closer to their group. Lasers begin to light them up, leaving wicked burns in their path. An inhuman howl rises up from the giants and their feet return to movement. It is rather unfortunate for them that by the time they have turned back around, there is now a huge, green ton of rage hurtling towards them.

Clint focuses on picking off those giants that would attempt to escape the main group. He's holding the rest of his exploding tips in reserve, but his got a plethora of toys and wicked gadgets that seem fully capable of inflicting enough pain to keep the group tightly gathered. Tony's using a similar tactic, leaving the Hulk alone on the ground. It still seems to be enough. The tiny doggies have pretty decent aim.

Behind him, he can hear a strange hum of energy. Natasha and the Captain say something, though Clint doesn't take the time to process it until after the last fire giant lies dead. The laser dogs have stilled in front of the Hulk. There seems to be some sort of discussion happening. Clint watches as Tony settles down beside them, hands spread wide in peace. The dogs fall to their hunches, scratching at their heads with their hind feet. Things seem safe there, then.

Clint turns and finds himself face-to-face with a hole into space. Memories swim as instinct gives him a kick into action. He's down the dune, with an arrow ready in his bow before he's figured out where to aim it. "I thought he needed the Tesseract to pull this stunt," he barks at Natasha and the Captain, who both seem to have been stricken silent.

"He said that was only because there were no doors." Natasha's voice seems to waver, as if having lost its hinge to reality, "Apparently, here is where the Bifrost is supposed to be. Which means that all the doorways to all the worlds the Asgardians know about open here. And all they really need to do is activate the bridges. Like, they hang there, in space-time, just waiting to be turned on."

She sounds like there is more she wants to say, but the arrival of a fleet of tiny spaceships at the other end of the tunnel through space leaves her silent. The ships slip through, zipping out of the hole and into Asgard's airspace. Orange and silver darts flash through the sky, dipping and spinning above them. Clint watches them with wary eyes.

The energy hum dies. Distractedly, Clint turns his attention back to Loki and Jane. Jane looks elated despite the sweat that has plastered loose strands of her hair to her face. She wears a giddy grin. "Did you see that?" she cries, delight in her tone. She seems unaware of the troubled expressions on the rest of the human faces. Loki remains impassive.

"Who, exactly," Steve jabs a finger at the sky, "Are they?"

"A mediocre offering from the Tesmit Empire," Loki drawls, "Do you mind? We have five more of these to open."

"Five?" spits Steve, "Why do we need so many? It took all of three minutes to take out that group on the hill."

Loki gives Steve a sinister smile. "A splinter group of unorganized teenagers won't give you an accurate picture of the force-at-large," he says, letting the implications do his work for him.

Steve looks ready to start something here and now, but Jane sends him a distinctly crestfallen look. Her lips part slightly as she shakes her head. "Don't do this," she says, "Please. I'd rather live past today, and if overkill is what guarantees that…"

"You won't die today," Loki's words cut across her own, like an edict from above. They are said hastily, but not without weight. He captures her gaze with his own. "You won't," he promises.

Jane nods. Her tiny hand slips into Loki's much larger one and they turn together as one force to rip the heavens apart again. There's something terrible written across Steve's face. Something calculating on Natasha's. The three of them watch in silence as four more bridges are opened. A battleship comes though one. Then another small fleet of ships the size of fighter planes. A wraith-like cloud travels through another. A number of slug-like beings drop from one into the not-quite water near their feet, struggling through the star-slime onto the beach.

Two pairs of eyes swivel on two pairs of grey-green tentacles. A voice that isn't a voice drips into Clint's mind, "Tenth battalion of the Slatholis Royal Navy," he thinks he hears. The slug gives him an impenetrable look. "You have strange pictures," the voice tells him, "Your brain is not rightly evolved."

"We call it language," Clint replies, letting the words rest on the air.

Loki turns and looks at him, his gaze more human but no more readable than the giant slug's. "Don't bother," he says, "The Slatholis don't have ears. They understand what they want to."

"It's why their war with the Triactus never ends," Jane adds.

Clint stares at them like they've both gone mad. The surreal state of things, the presence of aliens, the fact that a crazed Norse god is telling him that after reading his mind, giant slugs decided to help fight this war with him, and the fact that tiny Jane Foster is somehow in the middle of all of it, entirely unfazed in a way no human should be, has him struggling to keep track of things.

"Speaking of which," Loki continues, extending a hand toward one of the slugs and resting it against the creature's slime-coated skin, "I'm sure they'd like to know where they might be."

"The Triactus are here?" Jane asks.

"Of course. They've been allies with the Alfen for the last two millennia."

"You're throwing two species at war with each other onto the same battlefield, on the world you're trying to save?" Steve sputters.

"It's all a distraction," Natasha interrupts, her voice cool. "All of this, its just one big distraction. He doesn't need any of these armies."

Loki gifts her with a smirk, "I need some of them," he amends. "But yes, for the most part, distraction is the main strategy."

"You're putting lives on the line that don't need to be," Steve concludes.

Loki looks at him for a long moment. A shadow pulls itself across his face. "And this surprises you?" he asks in a hollow voice.

It doesn't surprise Clint. Then again, he's seen the same tactic used a dozen times by SHIELD. For a moment, Clint wishes he could have the same moral certainty Steve does. It would give him a lot less sympathy for the devil beside them.

* * *

_Okay, as I mentioned earlier, this chapter was originally going to be in Jane's POV. Which means that the first thousand or so words of that version are, in fact, written. So, if you're interested in knowing exactly what is passing between Jane and Loki in the opening scene of this chapter, let me know in either a review or a PM. I'll be happy to send you a copy of the "deleted scene."_


	38. Chapter 38

"You're putting lives on the line that don't need to be," Steve says with flashing eyes. There's a misplaced sense of morality in Rogers' expression, as if the universe is simple or easy to understand and exist within.

For a moment, Loki almost envies the simplicity of his world. For him, there might be only be black and white, no matter what the situation may be. If Loki must make that sort of choice, he'll choose black if it translates to better odds of success. Survival takes precedence. "And this surprises you?" he asks finally, feeling as though he is made of stone.

"There's one more left," Jane says quietly, forcing him to turn away from the soldier out of time and drawing him back to their task. Jane looks flushed. Her curls are matted against her forehead, trapped to her skin by a sheen of sweat. The sheer power that has been running through her would burn out a lesser being. She simply looks more deliciously alive than ever. It's a fact that scalds his icy heart. But he'll still push her through this one more time. By the end of today, she may never shake herself fully free of magic or its subtle presence. Worse, it's a burden he will leave her to face alone.

But this is no time for remorse.

"Of course," he murmurs, putting his mind to the task as the magic flows through him, directed by his will. He uses Jane as a conduit, channeling her magic into the spell he weaves, and sending the power out into the space where the gates hang within Asgard's sky. The power awakens the bridge, splitting the tunnel open from this end to the other like a knife through the fabric of space-time. Somewhere, out in the coldness of space or in an alien sky or upon an otherworldly field, the tunnel opens.

In this case, the tunnel opens nearly half a mile above the planet's surface. Luckily for its inhabitants, who have yet to master spaceflight, the trees reach such heights with ease. Their landing on this end is far less guaranteed. Unlike other races, who are resistant to the cold waters of liquid space or who have transport of some kind, the Kilkethians need some small consideration. Loki spins an air bridge for them, letting them walk with assurance from the empty space in the sky to the same shore they stand upon. The shattered remains of the Bifrost gleam a short way behind them, the observatory a broken dome shining out in the midst of the sea. The Kikethians observe it all with clever yellow eyes and needle-toothed grins.

Loki watches them approach with narrowed eyes. Beside him, Jane exhales yet another delighted gasp. Aliens who look like aliens, he remembers dimly, are something she has spent her whole life dreaming about. The other humans who stand near them are silent and still, evidently having condemned him as an executioner.

The Kilkethian troop might number a few dozen, which is less generous than Loki would have hoped for the price of their planet's cooperation. But a few dozen makes a better force for assisting the Avengers in their task, and Loki knows the moment he sees their commander, that this is the troop to send with them.

"Loki Laufe…"

"Just Loki," he interrupts. It's a calculated move on his own part, but he can see that the Kilkethian commander approves.

"Just Loki!" he exclaims, exuberance in his tone. "Yes, I can see that now. It suits." The commander's sharp teeth gleam in the starlight as he approaches. The Avengers beside him stiffen even as a wide-eyed Jane stares up and up at the Kilkethian who first steps from the bridge. "Freedom from the old tyrannies," Yantreth continues, "I should consider the same, perhaps, and let slid the Kril't name? My father ruled far longer than he should."

"He was waiting for you to act," Loki replies, his tone colder than the feelings Yantreth can only too easily read.

The young King waves a lazy hand, seven fingers curling in the air. "That," he says, "Was a misunderstanding."

Loki shakes his head, still unable to understand how an empathic race can still suffer from misunderstandings. He watches Yantreth transfer his gaze to Jane. "Your mate," he says with appraising eyes. His tone drops a decibel, though the act is purely symbolic. The Kilkethian tongue is far beyond the understanding of Midgardians. "She is stronger than you believe she is," Yantreth says slowly, his eyes watching her as his tongue runs over his narrow teeth, "Strong enough to bear what you haven't told her."

Jane is a marvel. She meets Yantreth's gaze with same square frankness she brings to every new situation she faces. "Hello," she says calmly, extending an open hand, palm up. The logic behind the original handshake – an empty palm to prove no weapons are held or threat intended.

Yantreth peers at her for a long moment, as if sifting through her emotional baggage in search of the appropriate response. A too-human smile crawls across his green-skinned face, and the King, with all eight feet of his towering height, bends deeply at the waist and catches Jane's hand. He places a chaste kiss in her open palm and smirks at her. His eyes flash towards Loki, who regards the scene as calmly as he can bear. He knows Yantreth can feel the truth of his reaction.

The Kilkethian stands back to his full height, coolly glancing at and dismissing the Avengers before he approaches Loki. "You love her," Yantreth tells him, "You shouldn't be so ready to abandon those you love. Others might be well pleased to entangle such a beguiling creature." He brushes past Loki, his taller, slimmer body slipping past him so only their cloaks touch in the wind.

If Loki shoots an expression of distaste after Yantreth's form, held so tall and proud with royal dignity, its entirely justified, or so he thinks.

"Royalty," smirks Natasha, meeting his gaze with roguish challenge, "Think they can just walk in and own everything, don't they?"

Her insinuation isn't lost on him. He just chooses to ignore it. There are far more pressing matters now.

He turns back to Jane, who looks vaguely bemused. "He's an interesting one," she says with a faint smile, "The Kilkethians, right?"

Loki nods tightly. Jane's expression darkens as her smile melts away, "That's the last then."

"They will accompany you," Loki says, his voice as commanding as he can make it, when all he really wants is to fall at Jane's feet. "You will go with the Avengers. Free Thor and," his voice wavers so slightly that only Jane or an empathy could catch it, "And Frigga."

Jane shakes her head, "I should go with you." She's swallowing hard and staring up him as if he is the only thing that matters and it breaks his heart to know that this is the last time he will see her. Even if he does somehow survive this, he cannot stay. "Two against one is _much_ better odds," she continues, "And you said she's powerful, so you can use the advantage." Her face gives her away. Even she knows that this is decided. The pallor of her cheeks, the thinness of her lips, the desperate sadness in her eyes. She lets her words sit silently for a moment. "How can we free them?" she asks finally, her voice low and soft.

"I taught you how to break enchantments," he replies in a deadened tone, "With her attention elsewhere, they should be weak enough for you to break them. If you're lucky, she'll be dead by the time you get there, and the work will already be done."

"I should be with you," she says sorrowfully, more in acknowledgement of her regret than insistence.

Loki smiles a bitter smile. "She's my wife," he admits with a bitter smirk, "It's only right that we should each be the death of the other."

Jane bites back a sob, looking away from him for the what seems to be the first time in days. "How do we find the dungeons?" she whispers, her voice perhaps too hoarse to trust to anything louder.

Loki has debated simply telling her the directions, and long ago decided that would be no sort of goodbye at all. He brings his fingertips to her temples and leans in towards her, touching his forehead to hers with painstaking gentleness. He closes his eyes and feels Jane's flicker closed.

In vivid colour, he paints the paths that lead from the shore to the base of the broken Bifrost. In his memory, the bridge is whole, and a much younger Thor grins back at him. Looking perhaps twelve or thirteen, the younger Thor raises a fist towards the sky and exclaims something as the wind catches in his crimson cloak. The prince runs up the road from the Bifrost to the palace, dodging Aesir and occasionally turning to shout something laughingly back. He pauses at the foot of the grand staircase leading up to the palace, as if listening to someone's unspoken words. A slow smile builds upon his earnest features, delight spurring an almost violent nod. Then, they are running again, sprinting around the back of the palace, through the gardens, behind several sheds, and down an alleyway that has no business being behind a palace, no matter how convoluted that palace may be.

Pale hands float into view as a wooden trapdoor is pulled up. The young Thor looks down at the dark passageway with a trace of awe in his expression. He looks up and suddenly the eager expression is back, challenging something. The fair-haired prince jumps down the passageway. There's a pause as the view shifts as if the viewer is shaking their head. Pale hands move back into view and a light blossoms into sight in the darkness below. A bewildered Thor stares up with childish relief. Suddenly, they are beside him, moving down the dark passageway. The bobbing light before them casts strange shadows, as they pass moldering doors and cobwebbed side-passages. Finally, they come face-to-face with a particularly heavy looking door. The pale hands press up against the wood, then the door handle. The door falls open. A dark room opens before them. It is an immense stretch of iron bars. The dungeons.

Loki pulls away from Jane. She opens her eyes. In their caramel depths is a well of empathy and warmth and pain that he wishes he could fall into. It would be so easy to grab hold of her wrist and pull her sideways into the doorway exactly thirty feet down the beach that leads to a quiet hilltop on Arcturan Twelve. Or to run a little further to the permanent door behind the waterfall that leads to the pantry in the Alfen palace, even though that might be a rather more eventful escape than the first, considering his current diplomatic status in Alfheim.

But he can't. Responsibility holds him tight. He owes this much to his mother. He owes this much to himself. Because truth to be told, there are few things he wants more than to wipe out the mistake that is Phyre, the monster of his own (if unintentional) making. For a moment, fear grips his heart as he looks down at Jane. He hopes, he begs the universe to not have let him give another being magic who shouldn't have had it. Jane looks back up at him, tears swimming in her eyes.

There's nothing he can say to her now that he hasn't already said. Nothing he can say that will make this hurt less. Nothing he can tell her to console her breaking heart. So he pulls her close and places a gentle kiss on her forehead. And before she can process what has happened, he has spun away from her embrace and begun to walk up the hill to the doorway in space-time that will take him directly into the palace.

He doesn't look back for fear that he will return to her, that he will kiss her one last time and change his mind. He's very selfish. It isn't beyond him to go back on his convictions.

"Wait!" she cries suddenly, her breath and her voice ragged as she struggles up the shifting sand of the dune. He doesn't stop. He speeds up. She's too much of a temptation, and he walks towards what might well be his death (what he hopes will be his death, because he can't imagine surviving this and still being able to walk away when _this _moment is so hard).

"I said wait!" she demands, and her voice is somehow nearer. Her feet pound on the grass beneath them. "You need…" her voice drops away, because he's stopped moving without making the conscious choice to do so. "You need to not die," she says. There's a conviction in her voice that renders it almost poisonous. Her hands fall upon his arm and pull him toward her. He can't manage anything more than a blank look as Jane settles her fingertips onto his own temples and pulls him down towards her.

The memory opens raggedly. There's more power being put behind it then Jane needs. It's sloppy, really, and Loki knows he's trained her better than this. Emotional turmoil or not, he can't see any reason for her to put this much intensity behind a scene of Embra and Bryn and herself drinking shots of something that apparently requires salt and citrus fruit to stomach.

"I'm not the one having an affair with the god of mischief, while pretending to be in love with his brother for the sake of appearance," Embra taunts in a low voice.

Loki almost opens his eyes with the shock of it. Because sharing _sound_ isn't something he's taught Jane. In fact, it isn't something he's realized could be useful.

"I'm sorry, Embra," Jane's voice cuts in, "My heart isn't made out of ice."

"Neither is mine," Embra spits back as she shoots down the liquid with ease. "In fact," she continues in a haughty tone, "Even in this form my heart remains living flame."

Jane's voice rises like a thread. "I keep forgetting you aren't human," she says, "Tell me more." Her tone is almost complacent, curious in the most innocent way. Loki feels almost indescribably proud of her as he watches in wonder as she pulls the required information from the fire demon, who is now smiling, in love with the attention.

"In my true form, I'm literally a flame. I burn, constantly, forever. Learning to construct a solid-form body is one of the first things I learned, and one of the only things I actually learned from my father. It was Phyre who taught me how to do glamours, so I could look however I wished."

"When was all this?" Janes asks in a muddled voice, playing Embra for a fool.

"About thirteen hundred years ago, if you go by Midgardian time. It feels like just yesterday," Embra smiles wistfully. "Phyre hates her flame form," she continues, "She's always said that it makes her feel exposed."

"Why would she feel that way?" Jane gasps, "How do you hurt a flame?"

And now Loki isn't sure if he wants to kiss her or cry, because she's found the one way he might survive this. She will be the one reason he might go on living. She'll be her own cause of her pain.

"The same way you'd hurt any flame, Jane," Embra says, "You put it out!"

"Put it out?" Jane asks in a horrified tone.

"Like getting water dumped on it?" Bryn adds, spelling it out with her darling innocence written across her face.

"Sure," Embra says mockingly, "Why not? Dump a bucket of water inside my chest. Yes, Bryn, that would totally work."

Except that it would work, and Loki opens his eye before the memory fades out, Jane's voice ringing in his ears as she asks if Phyre is, in fact, just as vulnerable.

"There was a spell," Jane gasps, "I didn't realize I could tell you without telling you until just now." Her caramel eyes are wide, her mouth open. She looks terrified, pleased, and scared all at once. Loki hears himself laugh, a strangely strangled sound, as if he can't quite believe that it is all so simple.

"I realized that there is, actually, a way to dump a bucket of water into someone's chest," Jane whispers, her hands falling from his temples to the bracers of his armour, "Though I don't know anyone else who could." There's a trace of laughter in her voice, though its tinged with desperation. Her fingers twist in between his and she stares down at them as her jaw works silently. "Don't die," she says finally, lifting her gaze to meet his. Her voice is firm, as if she is giving an order. Her eyes are strangely bright. "Don't die."

"It would be better for you if I do," he says. He looks at her darkly: an unrepentant criminal who's only regret is the damage he has done to her than she is still somehow blind to. "It would be better if I was nothing but a memory for you. Better for you to spin it all as enchantment and coercion." His teeth grind, but the words fall from his mouth anyway, "You could go back to Thor."

Her hands release his faster than they could let go of poisonous snakes. The force of her slap turns his head, and with a sense of unreality, he finds himself subject to the deep scrutiny of three distant humans. Behind them lingers the hulking ruin of the Bifrost. One glance to remind him of all his misconceived, failed plans. He returns his gaze to Jane slowly, considering the action.

Her breast heaves, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dance with fury and a hopeless love. "Never even _think_ that again," she hisses, "Never." She takes a few deep breaths, "No matter what happens," she says, "You _don't die_."

Loki sighs, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly as he pulls her into him. He wraps his arms close around her, feeling her hot body pressed tightly to his. Her tiny hands wrap around his neck, pulling him down to her. He lets her hold him, is distantly grateful that he's foregone the horns this time, and breathes slowly into her hair. "Even if it would be better for you?" he murmurs, his tone telling her that for once, he'll concede the point to her.

"Even if."

He pulls away slightly, eyes searching hers and finding in them the same fierce strength that had first intrigued him. "I'm so sorry, Jane," he says as he shakes his head. Part of him wishes he could tell her now, but there's no time to deal with the fall out. He's waited too long now. And he's selfish. Too selfish to spoil his last memory of her with the righteous anger and fury from her that he deserves. Too selfish to spoil these last moments with her confusion and the explanation she will need of why what he has done to her is so very terrible, so utterly cruel.

So he kisses her instead. Feather-light kisses across her closing eyes, across her forehead and her cheeks, and finally, upon her lips. Feather-light kisses that grow harder, more desperate, as he tells her goodbye in the only way she will let him. Kisses that make her clutch at his armour and cling to him with a whimper. Kisses that melt her, even as he feels like his own soul is dissolving. He parts from her finally, forehead against hers, eyes still closed. He feels Jane's eyelashes flutter open, feels her fingertips slide across his face, feels her pull them away wet. He swallows hard. "Goodbye, Jane," he whispers on a broken note. He lets her go, takes two steps right and one sideways, and shortcuts across Asgard.

* * *

In the palace, there are any number of alcoves and offshoots, quiet cupboards and shadowed corners. It isn't one of these that Loki steps into, but he's always prepared for that eventuality. Invisibility wraps around his form before it ever has a chance to become visible. It's all about making it without notice to his end goal, and this time, there are no empaths to sense his presence.

Loki finds himself standing in the middle of a room filled with rushing bodies. Vaguely humanoid forms shaded in burnt umber brush shoulders with creatures composed entirely of living flame. Eyes that are little more than burning coals look through him, vicious maws growling and snarling and snapping, but never noticing him. He wades through the crowd, untouched, his green eyes burning in their own way.

Room after room melts beneath his feet as he moves swiftly. He passes soldiers and guards and wild elemental beasts that have never known flesh. They are all running, sneaking, slinking outwards, called by the sounds of the battle just outside their doors. Archers less substantial than the arrows they loose lean out of windows and peer through slits in the battlements beyond the palace. Fire rains down upon the crowds outside. The wails and yells of the injured and the injuring rise up, mingling in the clamour of clashing metal and the sizzle of laser fire. Loki doesn't give any of it a second thought. In all of this, he has only ever had one goal. To get to her. To face her entirely alone.

He doesn't look for her in her chambers. He knows her hunger for power will keep her in the places where she will be best seen. With footsteps taken with the comfort of millennia of memory, he traces out a path to the throne room. He comes up a side passage, eyes searching the empty spaces of the massive room. Near the end, Phyre sits upon Odin's throne, her expression severely schooled, her posture perfectly straight. To her right stands her most trusted general. His black eyes stare down upon the figure below them without any trace of emotion. The flaming greatsword in his grip flares with deadly intent. To her left, Heimdall watches the scene impassively. His gaze darts suddenly upwards, glancing through the shadows that Loki lingers in. Thin lips become thinner. Heimdall's gaze returns to the Alfen emissary that stands before them.

"Do you accept our terms?" the emissary asks, his tone neutral and surprisingly calm.

Phyre looks at him with an even gaze, her head tilting just slightly to the left. "What is to stop me from severing your head from your body and responding to your pathetic king's demands in just such a manner?" she asks, her tone hovering between bored and venomous.

The emissary looks startled. "That would violate the very statutes of war between the realms," he says, astonishment in his almond eyes. "Why would you so flippantly throw away the rulings established to protect our peace?"

"Peace?" Phyre counters as her dagger-like nails scratch against the stone arms of the throne. "What peace? I have seen only an endless stalemate perpetuated by those too old and too timid to continue the war. There is no peace, Alf. There never has been!"

The emissary looks up at her with disquiet in his face. His slim body trembles ever so slightly as he realizes now the similarity between his position and that of the sacrificial offering. "You would declare war on all the realms?" he asks quietly.

"It has been my intent all along!" Phyre announces. "I have waited, biding my time in the hope of catching you fools unaware. Instead, you bring the battle to my front door! Now, when I triumph, I will look ever more righteous. And when I come to the doors of your kingdom," a wicked smile paints itself across her crimson lips, "And I will come to the doors of your kingdom. I will slaughter your women in the streets. Your children will be the slaves of my empire. And I will be celebrated across the stars as having brought nothing more than a well-deserved reckoning against your own actions."

The emissary gazes up at her with disgust in his eyes and fear etched into the corner of his mouth. "No," he says, "It will forever be remembered that you and your snake of a consort struck first."

Phyre looks at the emissary with an emotion that pretends to be pity in her eyes. "You poor creature," she purrs, "Do you not know that my dear husband has been exiled to Midgard practically since the day of our wedding?"

The emissary stares up at Phyre, a manic grin on his face, "Then you truly are the fool, child of Surtur."

Phyre's feigned pity morphs into a snarl. "You dare to call me a fool?" she screeches, "You dare to address me without title or deference?" A clawed hand raises itself into the air, and her general straightens imperceptibly. The hand falls with the finality of an executioner's ax and the general moves slowly from his position. With heavy steps, he descends from the dais, moving inexorably closer to the doomed emissary.

For his part, the emissary looks merely dazed. His eyes watch his incoming death, but the tortured smile does not leave his lips. "You are a fool," he says quietly, "To think you could rule chaos itself."

Phyre looks confused, opens her mouth as if to demand answers of the emissary, then closes it tightly as her general's heavy sword slices through the air. The emissary's body crumples to the floor. His head falls, bounces once, twice, rolls to the foot of the steps leading to her throne. Her eyes stare at the sightless ones that gaze lifelessly up at her. The smile on the dead lips is still mocking.

"Arevik," Phyre's voice is piercing, "I do not believe I was done questioning him."

"My lady," the general grinds out, in a voice reminiscent of the roar and crash of a forest fire, "You had given the signal. I do believe you had learned all that was not lies."

Phyre looks down, her lips pressed tight into a disapproving frown. "But he knew something," she says, her voice suddenly wavering, petulant as a child. "He knew something. He believed…" She spins on her heel to Heimdall and sizes him up with eyes that blaze. She considers the giant Vanir. "Leave us, Arevik," she says suddenly, her composure returned.

"My lady, I do not believe that is wise."

"I do not believe that this is something you have a say in," Phyre spits back without turning her gaze.

Beneath the dais, the general sags like a puppet who's strings have been cut. His black eyes gaze searchingly, pleadingly up at his mistress' back. He looks at Heimdall, as impassive as a statue, with an expression of distrust and enmity so strong that Loki can taste it from his shadowed position across the hall. "Yes, my mistress," her general says in tones so quiet and sorrowful that it sounds like goodbye, "I will tend to the troops outside."

"Better that you impale our enemies upon the tip of your sword," Phyre says.

Loki watches the general trudge from the hall, turning his dark gaze back upon the young empress with every few steps he takes. There is a loyalty and love in that gaze that Loki envies. Then again, he has found better and left it standing alone on a hillside. They will all die alone. It is as the universe would have it.

With Arevik gone, Phyre rises to her full height. Her fingertips blaze into hellfire as she takes one, two steps closer to Heimdall. "Where is he?" she hisses, her body flowing with feline grace, "Where, exactly, is my husband?"

"Perhaps," Heimdall says, in a voice so low that its booming qualities vibrate through even bone, even as one strains to hear the words, "Perhaps you should ask him yourself."

Phyre stiffens. Her face goes pale. The fire at her fingertips goes out, and her hands clench into tight-fisted balls. "What is that supposed to mean?" she demands with only the faintest tremor of fear in her voice.

"It means that you should turn around," Loki says, imbuing his voice with all the silken, sinister delight in the world. With her attention elsewhere, he has slipped from the shadows and up the steps. He lets his invisibility fall and stands directly behind his wife, a wicked smirk playing across his lips.

Her body becomes even straighter, if such a thing is possible. Her tail twitches, betraying a nervous fear that is new to their encounters. Then again, this is the first time that Loki has held all the cards. She turns slowly, her dark eyes gazing up at him as her lips settle into a poisoned pout. "So," she begins, "This is all your doing then?" Her voice is light, as if she does not truly care. Her body suggests otherwise, her every muscle seizing against what could only be described as an urge to flee.

Loki lets the smirk slip into a smile. He gathers Phyre's wickedly-clawed hand into his own cool grip, raising it up and dipping his head just slightly to press icy lips against the smooth, burning skin of her hand. She shivers in his grasp, her untrusting eyes never leaving him.

"Why couldn't I feel you approach?" she demands suddenly. "How did you…"

"Should I give away all my secrets?" he counters, "The fact that you have underestimated me is the only weapon you allowed."

She swallows hard against that. "Weapons, is it?" she says with an airy wave of her free hand. "Have you come to destroy me, then?"

Loki glances up at Heimdall, who stands behind Phyre with an impassive gaze. "Go," he commands. Heimdall remains still, eyes weighing and measuring the speaker's worth. "Go," Loki repeats with ice in his tone, "I believe Frigga will need your attendance."

At his mother's name, Heimdall relents. His body breaks free of its stillness. The sword in his hands is lifted. He moves away from the dais without a second glance. His role in this piece of theatrics is complete, so long as his true queen is free.

Phyre's eyes blaze a little brighter. "Is that what this is about then?" she scoffs, "Saving your poor, dear mother? There were a thousand easier ways you could have accomplished that."

"Were there?" Loki murmurs distantly.

"Of course," Phyre spits. "Where was this man when we married? Where was your ambition? Where was your pride? Now we stand here, and you have some ridiculous notion that we're on opposite sides!" She sneers at him, "You're pathetic. Full of confused ideas about what is right and what is wrong. You should know by now that there is only one thing worth having in this universe."

"One thing?" Loki repeats, narrowing his eyes.

"One," Phyre insists, her face taking on an almost enlightened glow, "Just one thing in all the universe. Power."

"That's it?" Loki asks, "That's all that's worth having in the entire universe?" He looks bored now. It's a lie he's heard too many times, and it has lost its hold over him. He doesn't even want power anymore, he realizes. He wants to be free of all this.

Phyre looks at him with confused eyes. "What do you mean 'That's it?' You yourself tried…"

"And failed," he corrects her gently. "I failed, Phyre. I grasped at straws and threw myself over the edge into madness, all for power. And I failed." He looks at her calmly, "And do you know what I found, at the other end of all that?"

She looks up at him with uncertainty spread across her face. There's something frightened behind her eyes, as if she knows that however far she has come, whatever she has given away, her fate will be the same as his.

Loki smiles bitterly as he lowers her hand down, finally letting it go. "Power means nothing," he tells her, "It's nothing but an illusion."

For a moment, she looks as if she borders on tears or the edge of breakdown. She trembles and goes increasingly pale. The colour seems drained from her olive-toned skin. "You're a fool," she hisses, "You think you've escaped this? That you've somehow ended things?" She looks wretched, "All you've done is killed the opportunity for this to end well. You've thrown your very last chance back into his face."

Loki feels suddenly chilled. "Who's face?" he demands, urgency in his voice, "Who's the power behind your throne, Phyre?"

She shakes her head, "Do you really believe that this will end in your favour, Loki Laufeyson?" She pulls away, magic creeping into the room and easing into her hands. "I offered you an easy way back into his graces, and you've thrown it away." Her eyes flash with something like possession, and Loki knows, he finally knows that you can't just ignore what has come before. "All you had to do," she croons, "Is be a good little puppy."

Loki grinds his teeth even as she raises her hands. He becomes a blur of motion in the same instant that Phyre looses the purple-blue lightning from her hands. "I'm not a pet," he says, slipping from shadow to shadow.

"No," Phyre replies, in a voice not entirely her own, "A pet has some notion of loyalty."

Loki smirks as he faces another blast of the magicked energy. His form swims under the force of the blast, the double melting beneath its energy. Phyre growls like something wild as she faces several grinning copies, all mocking her with brightened eyes.

"You will die, Loki," she says, "Thanos will have his due."

"Perhaps," he whispers into her ear from behind her, "But it won't be by your hand."

Phyre turns on her heel, her hands already raised to fire the eerie lightning directly into his chest. Then she falters. The icy blade plunges directly into her heart. Loki stares at her with red eyes. The blue of his true ancestry colours his skin. There's a long moment where they are still, frozen in place.

A giggle rises in Phyre chest. "You think a blade will end me?" she mocks, "Fire will ever conquer ice, you fool!"

Loki stares back at her, his expression impassive. "How do you put out a fire, Phyre?" he whispers, dragging his free hand down her cheek in a lover's caress. Her smile fades, the fire in her heart flickering and sizzling around the intrusion to her chest. Her eyes darken. Loki presses closer, digging the ice blade that is his own forearm even deeper into her heart. He directs the magic around him to pull in the water vapour in the air towards him. Like nets full of a heavy catch, the magic dumps the water into his bloodsteam. His own heart pumps the fatal substance into his arm, which freezes, then melts, ever so slowly, under the heat of Phyre's own heart.

"He'll come," she stutters as her heartfire sputters and begins to go out, "He'll come for you, Loki, and you will long for something as sweet as pain."

Loki shakes his head slowly, "Promises, promises," he whispers, "I've heard this before."

Phyre last expression is one of bitter defeat and her body crumbles into dust around him, until there is nothing left of her but a pile of piteous ash at the foot of Odin's throne. Loki looks down at it, the blade retreating into his skin. The blue fades from his skin. The green resurfaces in his eyes. And he knows. He knows now that there is no escape from fate. And that his is bound up, irrevocably, in the fight for the universe.

The voice that echoes across the hall is not entirely unexpected. Loki raises his emerald gaze to the ancient being who he has known all his life, but never really known at all. "Loki," the being says, his voice etched with sorrow and the dust of ages. There is only the barest hint of pride in that voice, and Loki knows such feelings too well. The pride is not for Loki's accomplishments, it is the pride of self for having foreseen truly, that Loki would save Asgard. One master of deception to another, Loki acknowledges the success of machinations well planned. It is all they are now, two strategists who may or may not play on the same side of the chess board.

"Odin," he says, his voice rising clearly, if bitterly, in the silence of the room.

"You have come home," Odin says. His voice suggests it is a statement. His face, benevolent in its lines of age, suggests it is a truth. His grip upon the Spear of Gungnir suggests it is an order.

"I have no home," Loki replies without emotion, "You cannot have me stay."

Odin looks at him with thoughtful eyes. His hands, speckled with the spots of age, tighten around Gungnir. The spear's tip shines in reflected light, its own will bleeding through.

"Thanos will come," Loki continues, his voice and his expression empty of passion or care, "Asgard is far too dear a price to pay."

Odin sighs heavily. The spear in his hands falls, becomes little more than a staff for him to lean his weight upon. Ageless eyes look upon Loki with a sorrow so deep that it fills the space between them. "So you will run, Loki?" Odin asks suddenly, "Forever and ever until the end of time?"

Loki smiles then, a beautifully wicked thing. "No," he says with all the princely charm he has ever possessed, "I will fight. On no one's side but my own."

"No," Odin shakes his head as the ghost of a smile crosses his face, "You'll fight for whoever your heart bids you too. You are both less and more than you give yourself credit for."

Loki stares at the All-Father with a slack expression, surprise in his eyes. He is not a hero. He has no desire to be one. He's not the sort who follows their heart. He isn't.

"You are," Odin insists, his voice gentle, "And when the time comes, my son, you will choose the side that changes the entire universe."

There's something familiar in his words, a latent prophecy he has heard time and again throughout the spaces he has traveled through. "We will be opposite sides when that day comes," he realizes. The words are a challenge issued, the last bitter retort of the unloved son.

"That is as it must be," Odin acknowledges.

For the first time, Loki realizes how very old Odin is. How frail his body seems. How ancient his voice and the pain in his eyes. Odin is ready for the end. It is the rest of the universe he is waiting for.

"And Jane?" Odin asks suddenly.

Loki's face transforms once more to an impassive mask. He cannot know that his eyes burn more fiercely now than they have yet. His love and his pain burn as brightly as that in Odin's own eyes. They are opposites, mirroring each other yet. Loki the barely contained chaos to Odin's carefully-constructed order.

"And Jane nothing," Loki says, though his voice is strained. Thanos will follow him to the edges of time and space. And beyond that, his destiny has been spread before him. There is no room for Jane in any of it. She is too innocent, too precious, too beloved to be put through that.

Odin nods, his stillness the greatest indicator that he has read Loki's true thoughts on the matter. "Then this is goodbye, my son," he says with a broken finality in his tone.

Loki's jaw clenches. "I am not your son," he spits suddenly.

"Every creature is a child of mine," Odin replies, that same deep, ancient pain radiating in his eyes.

Loki turns, steps sideways, and is gone.


	39. Chapter 39

_Wow… well, I'm so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. I had a few intensely busy weeks and a brush with some sort of illness that sapped all my energy. For those of you who messaged me or left concerned reviews – I'm alright now, and hopefully the next few chapters won't be faced with quite as much delay. Thank you all so much for your continued encouragement!_

_A note on this chapter: it is meant to be a bit dreamy and out-of-sorts. The next chapter will be clearer and should answer some of the questions that have been raised._

* * *

Jane's footsteps fall heavily in her own ears. There's so much sound, so much movement. All around her, there are flashes of light, crashes of metal, and the strange echo of a dozen languages spoken by inhuman tongues. She is racing through the middle of an intergalactic battle happening in a realm that inspired human myth. There's a dizzy sensation somewhere beneath her temples. Her knees feel weak, but she finds she is running still.

To her left, the Kilkethian troop is tackling a series of shadows dwarfed by their height. Angular creatures that seem to be composed of ash and soot (and little else), are falling to pieces beneath the strokes of their wicked blades. To her right, Steve has his shield raised to protect them as they run. Somewhere above them, Tony is calling out directions. Flashes of light and laser illuminate sweat-streaked faces. At her heels, a Triblexian scout keeps pace, looking for all the world like a dog, until you get to the eyes. Brilliant, sharp eyes filled with uncanny intelligence and harsh skepticism don't fit into a dog's expression. Nor does a laser mounted to its back.

Wading through this world gone mad, Jane already knows she's lost. She just doesn't know quite how much yet.

* * *

Saying that it isn't difficult to trace out the steps Loki gave her would be a lie. The path has worn into a different shape since the time shown in his memory, and the addition of a land and air battle raging through and above it all doesn't help. But Jane understands the value of a lie now. The path isn't difficult to follow at all, according to her explanations afterwards, or the stories she will tell years later. In fact, it is almost uncanny how simple her task is. (Tony Stark's son will hear a very different version of the story, in which it takes over an hour to make the journey, at least three wrong-turns are made, and no less than five hot-blooded fire giants are felled by a combination of guns, lasers, blades, and magic, which seems to pour from Jane without any real conscious intent.)

To Jane, however, they may as well have teleported to the cramped, dark passage that ends with a heavy wooden door that looks to be made of petrified wood. The world is a blur, imbued with a single purpose: get through this battle, then get through the next day, and the one after that. Loki is gone. She can feel it in the tendons and sinews of her body. She can make him promise to live, but she can't make him stay. So now the place where he belongs is empty. And she has been left behind. All that she has left is a misplaced sense of duty. _His _misplaced sense of duty. She has nothing left of her own. Thank god she only has a short, mortal life left before her. She can't imagine an eternity of this hollow beneath her breast.

So she listens to her footsteps. The texture of the sound changes when they disappear into the tunnel-like passage. The heavy thud of boot on dirt is replaced with the echo of sole on stone. The sound fills the small, dark space, taking on a life and promise of its own. They hit the door and Jane places her hands upon it. The magic that has worked through her body is barely even under her control at this point. Really, she just points and _feels_ and the power flows through her, manifesting according to its own will. She understands now that it does have one. It longs to exist, to feel, to live. She's a conduit for it now.

But it isn't fast enough for Tony Stark, who aims without a second thought and burns through the hinges before Jane can even express the desire for the door to be open. (She's busy desiring other things, but she knows she can't have any of them. Better to be incoherent than to give voice to _them_.) The door falls open, a smoking wreck of a thing. A dead carcass of worn wood. The last casualty of her slice of this war.

Jane stares incomprehensibly at the parallel lines of parallel bars and finds the abstraction of cold iron in firelight to be strangely beautiful. She isn't sure how much of what is running through her head is her and how much is the power and the magic. She's barely human, or so she feels. It takes her a moment to remember.

"Loki?" the voice booms down the corridor of metal bars and stone. It is so familiar and yet so vague in her memories that Jane cannot place it immediately. It's question strikes through her like lightning, however. Loki is gone. Better dead. But not dead. Because she would rather he be out there somewhere than face a universe he isn't in, no matter what the consequences may be for her.

"Thor!" someone shouts in reply, and while Jane is certain the voice is male, she is never afterwards sure if it is Steve or Tony who cries it. It isn't Bruce. His hand is heavy on her upper arm, fingers wrapped tightly around her weak bicep, guiding her gently, as he has for an entirely unknown and unmarked amount of time.

Natasha is a shadow, streaking down the cell block and testing hinges and bars long before the rest of them. Jane feels a wash of magic slam into her as she follows the assassin's lead. The cells are protected by heavy enchantments. But even as she extends shaking fingertips to them, she can feel the spells unknotting in her head. The magic whispers something in the bottom of her skull. An alien smile crosses her lips. The enchantments break.

When she raises her head to meet the pair of gods who stand before her, she has no glimmer of recognition in her eyes. Thor stares at her with a muddled expression. There is a slackness to his jaw that isn't quite hidden by the growth of his beard, a shadow across his eyes that is not eclipsed by joyous recognition. The woman who gazes down upon her feels heavy with a sad sort of magic, and Jane dimly notices that her pale hand is drawn across her mouth as if in shock.

"Jane?" Thor asks her quietly, eyes searching hers.

"Leave her be," the woman says quietly, "She's deep in the magic. Deeper than I have ever seen." There's a tightness around her lips that betrays a greater age than the rest of her features. "Your brother should not have done… this."

Thor is stiff. "Mother," he murmurs, "She feels like…"

"That is the magic." Jane misses the smashing force of Mjolnir as it finally feels the pent up summons of months and responds to its wielder's call. To Jane, the bars have merely melted away. The blonde woman with the gentle face catches her hands up in her own. "_His _magic," the woman whispers. There are tears in her eyes. "But he is gone."

* * *

The battle is over for Jane, who lets herself float along behind now. She is caught and held by the gentle grasp of the beautiful lady who's face is etched with sorrow. The woman has a special brand of magic. It feels gentle and warm and calm. Jane basks in it, miles away from reality.

So she misses the moment when Thor hits the battlefield, the Avengers at his side and Sif at his back. She misses the moment the tide of battle turns and ebbs away. She misses the noise and the burn and the rage and the despair. She is adrift on a sea of emotion and borrowed magic. The channels it has cut through her are narrowing as it slips out from her, leaching back out into the air and the realm and the universe. Slowly, terribly slowly, reality returns.

It happens in the space between the closing of her eyes and their opening. She has blinked, and the world has sorted itself back into a comprehensible shape. "Thor?" she hears her own voice ask, trembling and weak as it addresses the broad back before her.

The back turns, and Thor stares at her for a long moment. "Jane?" he whispers, as if he cannot quite trust in the consciousness in her eyes. His gaze drifts to her right for a moment, and Jane feels delicate fingers tighten around her hand for a brief moment.

"She is her own again," a gentle voice decrees. Jane turns her head to find herself face-to-face with the true queen of Asgard. Her hand is squeezed again before it is released. Before she can find her footing, Jane is swept into an embrace that pulls her from solid earth.

"Jane," Thor says, a boom in her ear that puts her even further off her fragile balance. His beard tickles against the skin of her cheek and Jane finds herself wriggling to escape his prolonged grasp.

"Thor," she whimpers, "I can't breath."

They are magic words, for they free her from his grasp and transform the warrior triumphant into a little boy with shy eyes. "Are you alright, Lady Jane?" he asks with all the grace of courtly manners. "I had feared, for a moment, that you were lost. Such things have happened before."

Jane blinks hard. "Lost?" she asks distantly, still feeling strangely apart from herself. She understands before he answers her, that he means lost to the magic. It's power can be dangerous then. And Loki had left her in the prelude to such a state, with no warning. Jane feels a shiver at the base of her spine, even as a wave of longing sweeps through her. She wishes he was here, but at the same time, is terribly thankful that he is not. She can't imagine a universe in which he isn't free, and there is a feeling in her very toes that screams that he would not be free, if he were here now. He is guilty of far too much.

Thor peers down at her, into her eyes with a grave intensity. He says nothing just yet, but she can see that there are a million things on his tongue. She doesn't want to answer to him. She doesn't have answers yet.

"Come," he says instead, offering a heavy hand to her. Jane finds herself staring at it like an alien appendage. It has all the appeal of a Slatholis tentacle.

She feels the delicate hand of the queen by her side wrap itself around hers once more. Jane turns her head once more and finds herself looking up into motherly eyes. "My dear," Frigga murmurs as she slides her free hand around her arm, "You are safe now."

"But," Jane says in a voice that cracks, bending the word into far too many syllables.

Frigga shakes her head, "We can speak of my youngest son later."

If it were not for Frigga, Jane isn't certain she could have moved. But her eyes have a strangely familiar depth of colour to them, and there is a well of pain and sorrow and loss than tastes exactly like Jane's own. There may be only one other being in the entirety of the universe who can understand the depth of Jane's loss and pain, but if that is so, then it is Frigga. Kindred spirits have never needed words to share their pain.

Jane lets herself be led.


	40. Chapter 40

_I realize these chapters are rather short compared to my normal, but its a necessity borne of rapidly changing POVs, and the fact that I've had less time to write. I figure better to update then to leave you all hanging longer than necessary._

* * *

Thor has seen many battles in his time, but this one is something else entirely. The machinations of his once-brother are written into its very fabric; that is to say, chaos reigns. There is no open field. The fights are broken into scuffles in the streets and byways of Asgard. The dead and the wounded block paths and passages, forcing individual fights into ever stranger locales. The fighting is even in the palace. Perhaps most troubling is the fact that very little of the fighting is for Asgard herself. Loki has gathered the strangest forces, some few working together for a greater purpose, but many more losing sight of that purpose quickly upon spotting some long-hatred rival species or race. From a militaristic or diplomatic perspective, it is a disaster. From a strategic view, it is brilliance. Under the cover of noise and death, Loki has slipped in and achieved the goal. The artifice and illusion are what have freed Thor and their mother, kept Jane alive, kept himself undetected, and, if the pile of miserable ashes beside the All-Father's throne is any indication, have allowed Loki to somehow slay the usurping demon. It is a victory, but at what cost?

Behind him, Jane clings to his mother's hand like a lost child. Her eyes are unfocused, but strangely bright, her mind lost to magic. Her very being is suffused with the stuff, it rolls off of her in waves that feel eerily like his brother's presence. Whatever he might have guessed from the stolen moment he had seen, this is not it. To use a mortal to channel such power is beyond wrong. Every Asgardian knows there are consequences to such an act. Between the multi-species massacre and Jane's state, it is evident that Loki has crossed far too many lines to bring them this victory… his branding as a traitor, a lunatic, a murderer may actually be required to explain this. It is all so far beyond being justifiable.

There's a hollow space where his heart belongs, Thor finally realizes. He has been locked in a dungeon for nearly a Midgardian year. It is only the blink of an eye in his lifetime, but it has been time enough to leave him with certain expectations. He has had the time to draw conclusions, to revisit memories, to strengthen his patience. He has prepared himself for every outcome: for Loki's continuing betrayal, for an eternity in the dungeons, for welcoming Loki back with open arms. He has not anticipated that Loki might succeed, but use methods so deplorable that a warm welcome is beyond the realm of possibility. He has been prepared to lose his brother to evil. He has not been prepared to admit that Loki might truly be mad. That chaos might just be the only thing left to him. It defies belief. But there it is, in Jane's blank eyes. There is no love and no loyalty his brother is not willing to sacrifice.

"They're two separate species," Tony says eagerly, "The dog ones and these fantastic orange three-legged people. And together they make up the Triblexian Empire. Can you imagine the PR we could do with that on Earth? Two _entirely_ different species working together and ruling together. Kinda makes things like race or religion small, don't you think?"

Natasha expresses a noncommittal sort of sound while Steve offers a tentative agreement, tempered with the desire to know a bit more before they celebrate perfect peace. Thor feels the ghost of a smile on his lips. He has missed the Avengers. He has wondered what they might be doing, where they may be. Now he asks himself what may finally have convinced his brother to seek their aid. More immediately, he wishes he knew what he could possibly say to them to bring them back to the place they were at when last he visited Midgard. He has fought alongside them to get them this far, but there is still a missing element. They are not the perfect unit as they were on Midgard.

"They will understand," a voice murmurs in his ear. Thor turns his head in time to see the dark streak of Sif's hair as it curls in the air to catch up with her. She appears at his other side, a bloodied dagger hanging loosely from one hand, a slightly-dented sword in the other. She wears a dangerous smile. "They are warriors," she continues, her tone easy, "Like you and I. They will understand in time."

And Thor knows it is true. There is something about battle and the surviving of one bloody encounter to the next that binds those who fight for all things right and true. But it is no less reassuring to see Odin climbing the stairs of the dais to stand by the throne. Thor feels his throat tighten, hears the minute breath of relief from his mother, tastes the sudden awed silence of the Avengers at his back.

"My son," Odin says slowly, "My queen." He meets their hopeful gazes, connects them, binds them back into something like a family. There is a moment when Thor almost expects Loki to materialize between them. Instead, Thor sees his father truly. He is ancient. Old beyond the understanding of the word. Tired eyes gaze upon the crowd of stragglers before him with nothing but sorrow and the memory of fondness. But the old man straightens, opens his arms wide, raises the great spear Gungnir. "This battle," he commands, "Is over!"

The words ring with power. Magic sends them trumpeting through the halls and the passage, the byways and the alleys, the muddied paths and damaged squares. The sound of it radiates through the skull, soaking into the bloodstream, shooting into cells. The command is true, and it stills even the most violent and vicious hand. Like a hundred thousand silent statues, the amassed forces of a dozen or more races cease their meaningless battle at the direct command of the All-Father. There are few other forces in the universe that are capable of such a thing.

Behind him, Thor hears someone take a ragged breath, as if they are waking from a nightmare. "Thor?" Jane's voice asks, small and precious for its treasured place in his heart. He turns in an instant, sweeping her tiny form into his arms and wishing that he could hold her there, safe from the demons that most certainly would run through her heart and her head forever after today.

"Jane," he hears himself say, and in the single sound, he hears all the things he has tried to deny. There was something about Jane that stole his heart, no matter that he tried to stifle its cry with duty. He wishes he had taken the time to visit her. He wishes that he could have protected her, saved her from this fate. She is too precious, too rare to have such a burden forced upon her. The innocence of her will drain away, if it hasn't been lost already.

"Thor," she repeats, and for a moment, he is almost able to tell himself that she shares his wish, that she will let him protect her forever, that she is still free to be his after all. "I can't breath," she whimpers, and Thor feels his arms fall open at the sound. He has never been good at lying, not even to himself. He looks down at Jane, warm caramel eyes looking everywhere but at him, pale hands rubbing wistfully at her upper arms. She is a different creature than he remembers.

"Are you alright, Lady Jane?" he asks her, falling back on courtly manners now that he can step back and accept that she is transformed. She is beyond his reach now, of and belonging to that strange world of magic and trickery and subdued emotion that is Loki's, and never his. "I had feared, for a moment, that you were lost. It has happened before," he continues. She _is_ lost, he wants to say, lost to him, lost to the world of things that are warm and bright. She's chosen wrongly for herself. She hasn't chosen him. It isn't supposed to hurt this much. He has been too well prepared for this unspoken rejection.

"Lost?" she whispers, her eyes finally meeting his. Her gaze swims with questions, but all of them of the technical sort, and Thor is taken back to a starry evening in a desert town. He can feel the pencil in his heavy hand, can hear the tattered explanation of Yggrasil falling from his tongue, can remembered quite clearly how he wished that Loki had been there to explain it for her instead. And he realizes that Jane has never been meant for him. She has always been meant for his brother. The realization tastes like ashes on his tongue, and he remakes the peace he thought he made with himself months ago in a darkened cell.

"Come," he says, offering out his hand to her. The All-Father waits, steady eyes fixed upon Thor's back, summoning him and the tiny human creature to the throne. Her eyes go scared, her hands go limp. There is a single name on her lips as her eyes take on a stranger sheen.

Thor looks to his mother helplessly. Her lips lift into a pained smile and she gives the slightest of nods. She catches Jane's hand with her own, slipping the second around her arm as she guides her. She murmurs something that washes the scared expression from Jane's face. She guides Jane up the steps alongside them, pulls her before Odin.

"Jane Foster," Odin says quietly, the name falling from his lips from behind a frown. There's much to be said, much to be decided. But the unspeakable truth is that Jane, as she is, _should not be. _Her existence, the fate of it, must weigh heavy upon the All-Father's heart.

Thor waits quietly for Odin to continue. His lips are already moving when Jane interrupts. Thor falls still. "Loki?" she asks, her voice carrying so much more strength and hope than he has heard within it yet.

"Is gone," Odin replies, his expression softened.

For a moment, Thor is afraid that she will cry. Instead, he sees the strangest thing. For the briefest moment, Jane Foster's expression crystallizes. Her eyes blaze with a fierce sort of strength. Looking from Jane to his mother, Thor has a name for it. Jane Foster, in this moment, carries herself like a queen. There is the same tightness around the jaw, the same thinning of the lips, the same straightening of the spine and incline of the chin. Jane has all the bearing of a future queen. It's a thought that falls across Thor while renewing his sense of loss.

He watches Jane take a deep breath, exhale slowly, swallow hard. "Alright," she says quietly, "That's all there is then." She seems to be strangely at peace with this. "I guess this is the part where I go home then," she smiles wistfully, "I do kinda miss the desert, actually. Its very quiet there." Thor feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as she continues. "I imagine I'll just have a quiet life, after all this," she rambles, "Grow old and die and be remembered as the crazy scientist who was actually right. Do my best to forget that there's so much more to the universe."

Thor catches his mother's concerned glance. Odin's brow furrows. Thor feels a rising sense of horror. "Jane," Frigga murmurs, pressing fingertips lightly upon her arm, "Did my son really not tell you?"


	41. Chapter 41

Frigga has been queen of Asgard for millennia. In her time, she has seen a great many things. Some have been wonderful beyond description, others have been terrible beyond imagination. She has seen peace made between the strangest allies and war waged between brothers and sisters. She has seen children be born, live, and die upon battlefields far from home. She has brought life into this world, and though she does not often speak of it, she has also taken life from it. Perhaps strangest of all, she has often seen things before they come to pass. Her heart and her mind snag upon images, thoughts, and events long before they come to pass. She possesses the power of premonition, but she lives on despite it, for there is never just one set future. Events can be changed. And she never knows which of her visions will prove true, and which are merely warning.

From the outside, she seems queenly, patient, and gentle. It is true enough, she supposes. It is difficult to explain to others that much of the time she stands with only one foot on the ground. In every moment, she faces not only the current face of reality, but also all those it may one day take. Some things, some people, are simple. They have only a limited number of purposes, a limited number of reactions. These are easy enough to manage in her mind, especially after millennia of practice. Others are less simple. Some things, some people, have literally hundreds of possible fates. Others have thousands. Once, such multitudes of possible timelines could be dizzying. But she has learned to put all things into their place, to survive this strange barrage of input. If she seems hyper-aware, it is only because she has seen so many possible futures. That which seems meaningless or trivial in the present might be of the greatest significance in one or more versions of the future.

* * *

_Magic can be understood as a form of energy. But it is also a force in itself. It has a sense of the universe. It has an awareness. It is dangerous. It has its own wants, needs, and desires. One cannot once use magic and remain unchanged by it. The more it touches, the more it claims. _

_- Excerpted from "An Introduction to the Use of Magic"_

* * *

Frigga has lived a very long time. Long enough to know at least some part of the truths that underlie the fabric that hides the face of the universe. Once, in an earlier age, there were mortal creatures who sought to understand the universe and its workings. These mortal creatures found many forces at work, many forms of energy. They found truths and laws that seemed to hold constant, and others that did not. And then, they found magic. But she is weak on this point – it is possible that magic found them.

Many ages after, impossible worlds were forged by the magic wielded by these creatures. In time, the youngest of these creatures came to understand these impossible worlds as home. In time, the eldest of these creatures were lost or left or faded away. In any case, the Realm Eternal was left behind, and those who inhabited it understood magic as they had once understood mortality: a constant thing that drives life and shapes it. There have been enough wars since that time that even the creatures most beloved by magic have fallen, either into death or into the deepest, darkest parts of the cosmos. Magic seeps in and leaves you open. Time can warp the strongest mind, dry up the most passionate of emotions. Thanos knows this better than any.

Magic loves chaos, and it is a blind guide. It is also the only one they have. The only one until Odin, in any case. Odin is the first to decide that magic should be a tool and they the artisans of their own fates. He may or may not have slain his own father defending such heresy. He leads the first warriors into battle. He becomes the battle. By the end of the first wars, the rest of the universe understands that Asgard sits at the top of the World Tree and Odin sits upon the throne of Asgard. All order is belonging to Odin, all structure is of his making. The All-Father is born.

* * *

_Under the yoke of the All-Father, magic faces, for the first time, the concept of subjugation. But it does not relent. The creatures who would wield it become creatures belonging to it. Magic enters into their veins and flows through them at the most cellular level. In a mortal creature, energy runs out and parts break down. Magic will not suffer such degradation of its most cherished vessels. It fixes them. It supplies the energy. Even in its most captive state, bound into the flesh of symbolic fruit, it will enact this property. Such is the will of Asgard. Such is the gift of Odin, bestowed of those he finds most worthy of the gift… or the curse. _

_- Taken from a fragment of the secret writings of Tal-Annon-Esh_

* * *

Frigga loves her husband. Or at least, she did once. There were ages of the universe in which she very nearly worshiped him. There were ages in which they all did. But the truth of the matter is that Alfen-kind was once less divided, the Jotun were not always eager for war and destruction, Hel was once considered a beautiful maiden by her people. In every case, the poison in the veins was spread by Odin's gift. Captive magic, immortality without the training or the evolution of the creatures who began to bear it, became a curse upon them. Those who accepted it aged almost unbearably slowly. They watched their people die. They felt their hearts run dry, their sanity pull thin. The wars for power and dominion began. Magic is dangerous. It has a will of its own. And now, it craves freedom.

Frigga has faith in Odin, however. His vision has re-formed the universe. He has changed the face of it. He guides them through battles and wars. He designs the policies that allow for Asgard's people to have families without crowding out their land or wearing through their resources. He gives her a child, and then, as she already knew he would, he leaves her alone, heavy with his unborn son and the rule of a universe she cannot see clearly. She believes in him, though. He is the best of them. The best of the good things in the universe.

She believes this until the day the midwife places the squirming bundle that is Thor into her arms. She looks into his tiny, wrinkled face and she sees all that he will be, all that he can ever be, all that might lie in between. And now, though she has felt the weight of her son's future in her womb all along, she finally cries. For she knows the moment his blue eyes meet hers that her son will never truly be king of Asgard. It is a power that Odin will never willingly part himself from, and while Odin has ever been a good man, Frigga sees now that he has never been truly good. Power flows through his veins, is his birthright. Odin, the All-Father, is meant to be the father of the universe until the moment he ceases to be. And unlike Odin, Thor will never carry the darkness required to murder one's own father to take their place.

This realization is a knife in Frigga's heart. It is a wound that can never heal. She can never again be blind to husband's flaws, to the pain he brings, the tyranny he imposes with the imposition of his vision of the universe. He's long ago forgotten that his was only an opinion, a dream. There's no room for other viewpoints or visions now. He is not evil for this. He is only not entirely good. For this reason, Frigga dreads his return. But her dread is misplaced, for when he does return, he places a far tinier bundle into her arms than the midwife did.

Frigga's breath catches in her throat as the silent babe in her arms meets her gaze. His eyes have a colour that is at war with itself, and the glamour over his skin tastes strangely bitter on her tongue. Magic does not bend to Odin's will without throwing up some sort of rebellion. But Frigga smiles in a strange new way. The magic has found itself a perfect home, for Loki has too many futures to name. Too many paths to take. He is everything and everywhere at once. He is so much more than a foundling child of the Jotun. He has all the power and all the darkness and all the strange, wild strength of the empty places in the universe that Thor lacks. He will be magic's truest champion, for he is very nearly chaos incarnate. Frigga's arms tighten around the babe who will ultimately be her husband's undoing. He is precious because he will surely set something right, but he is more than this. He is like nothing, like no one, she has ever encountered. For this, she loves him with a desperate fierceness that she cannot even summon for her own blood, because this child is impossible and impossible things need more love than any other sort.

* * *

_For reasons made clear during the events of the Ninth Midgardian Battle of the Third Ice War, the teaching of magic to the mortals of Midgard is forbidden. The Midgardians possess fragile, suggestible natures. They are easily possessed by magic's most potent effects, take too easily to its power, and often die upon having it stripped from them. _

_(Margin Notes: Why? Why do the Midgardians become so powerful so quickly? Is it possible that magic prefers them? If so… why? Terrible, bloody business. Refuse to take that child along again – he still does not understand that magic cannot be shared! Magic will take the smallest opportunity to search out new users... even touching it is enough!)_

_- From the writings of the scholar Helsmier, tasked with "cleaning up that foolish child's mess, again" after the younger Odinson's latest attempt to explain magic to mortal species_

* * *

The moment Thor returns to Midgard following his exile, Frigga becomes aware of Jane Foster's existence. Too many things happen then for her to understand the importance of the petite brunette who has suddenly appeared in several of her son's possible futures. They are unlikely futures, for Midgardians are notoriously short-lived, even among mortal creatures. But she has been a friend to Thor, and a good influence, and that is enough for Frigga in that moment. It is only shortly after that she looses her most precious child, so she can be forgiven for forgetting about her until much later.

When Frigga first sees Jane, it is as if through a mirror. She sends Thor a sidelong gaze. She feels compassion for her eldest son, as she literally watches those few possible futures he once might have had with Jane splinter into fragments. She looks back towards the captured image of the human woman wrapped in the arms of her not-entirely-lost son. She cannot see their futures through this sort of magic, so she has no way of knowing what this may mean for the future. In this moment, however, she can see quite clearly that they are deeply entangled, and that knowledge scares her. Loki has never understood the boundaries or restrictions laid down by the courts and counsels of Asgard. He has never shown them due respect. Recent events considered, she doesn't even dream that he may be improved. And she wonders just what he may have done to this mortal to make her worthy of the grip he holds upon her. Her son, who hates Midgardians and despises their weakness and their mortality, at least in part for the events he can't, or at least shouldn't, remember.

By the time Loki makes his move and Frigga first sees Jane in person, she has already concluded that he has taught her magic. It wouldn't be the first time he has tried to share the gifts and curses of Asgard and she knows in her heart that it won't be the last. Despite this, it is still a shock to her when Jane appears before them with magic virtually flowing from her. Frigga remembers the earlier times, when Asgardians had allowed other species to dabble with magic. She remembers the attempts to share magic with Midgardians. She knows that this is dangerous. Magic clings to their species, weaves itself into their psyches, melts into their cellular structure. They have an affinity for it that rivals most other species, and far eclipses what most Asgardians are capable of. But Jane is a rarer creature still.

With wide eyes, Frigga realizes that the magic is literally wrapped around her. Like a protective cloak or a second skin, the magic has become almost a part of her. And that familiar trait brings to mind only one other being. With a faint gasp that goes unnoticed, Frigga sees a second trait she has only seen in one other before. There's a sudden well-spring of hope within her breast. Impossible creatures, it seems, come in pairs.

Things happen quickly after that, for Frigga recognizes one more thing: the symptoms of being completely lost in magic. She wraps her hand around Jane's and lets herself murmur whatever soothing things decide to fall from her tongue. Her mind is wrapped up in a hundred thousand possible futures. In at least several, this girl is her daughter-in-law. In many more she is still that, if not in name or law. The truth of the matter is that Jane Foster may as well be Loki's other half. There is something wild in her veins, and her magic has the same flavour of turmoil and chaos as Loki's. It is possible that this is something he has done, knowingly or not, but maybe, just maybe, magic has a greater power and this is simply its herald call.

In any case, Loki should not have abandoned her here. No matter what his intent may be, leaving Jane here is dangerous, and Frigga reads as much in her husband's eyes. If she can sense the strength of the magic around her, then he can see it like the exploding of a supernovae. His lips are thinning even now, as the truth of the situation emerges. Jane does not know what she has become, and that makes her even more dangerous to the fragile balance of the universe he has influenced into being. A balance which Loki is threatening even now.

Frigga thinks fast, for she will not let Odin strip Jane Foster of her magic. She will not allow Loki's mate to be sacrificed to her husband's need for order and control. Jane Foster must live, must be trained properly, must be protected and taught to recognize her danger. And eventually, Frigga promises herself, she must find Loki.

And that is how Jane Foster becomes a ward of Asgard, unable to return to Midgard until she has been suitably trained in the laws, codes, counsels, and methods of magic. Which isn't to say that she doesn't attempt a fight, or that the so-called Avengers don't almost start a diplomatic disaster, but in the end, it is made clear that this is her only real option. Frigga just wishes she could protect Jane from more.


	42. Chapter 42

In Thor's opinion, Jane takes surprisingly well to Asgard. It's a troubled opinion, however. There are a great many things at work which Jane has not been made aware of, particularly because they all revolve around her, and Thor finds he doesn't quite agree with most of them. But then again, he is not king of Asgard. The end result is that Thor finds himself mired in doubt and uncertainty whenever he is around Jane, and that may or may not be the reason he finds himself avoiding her more often than not. He may also be more than a little terrified by what she has become.

When it is declared that Jane, as an immortal with untrained magic and no knowledge of its rules, must remain in Asgard, Thor watches her go impossibly pale. Her jaw becomes a stiff line. Frustrated rage carves itself across her lips and her deep brown eyes grow cold with defiance. It is the threat of being stripped from the magic altogether that freezes her in place. It is the threat of war between Midgard and Asgard that folds the angles of her body. It is Jane herself who talks down the Avengers, acknowledging their true lack of choice in this vast unknown universe they have entered. Her mouth shapes words and syllables that paint a convincing picture. She is happy to stay in Asgard, eager to learn all she can, and in a year or two she will return to Earth. No one corrects her, though all can tell that it is a lie. She is not happy or eager, and Odin's expression suggests that he is thinking of letting her return to Earth in something closer to never.

In a day or two, after the multitude of alien troops and forces have been returned home and the new treaty of nonaggression with Muspell has been signed, Thor finds Jane. She sits with her knees tucked up to her chin in the corner of a window seat in what he suspects no one has told her are Loki's childhood rooms. His mother hasn't exactly been subtle in pointing out that Jane is practically family now.

Jane's curls are a tousled mess and her gaze is abstract as she stares out over the gardens below. She doesn't look towards him as he enters the room and settles into the opposite side of the seat. "Jane," Thor says, feeling a wave of confusion wash over him as he struggles to decide what to say, what to comfort her over first.

"I don't understand," Jane says in a tone so flat that Thor feels his heart ache. "I don't understand why he would do this to me and then leave." Her head falls a few inches more, "I knew he would leave. I just… thought it would be because I'm mortal."

Thor stares at her blankly. He has no answers for her. If it were him, he would only leave Jane for one reason: duty to Asgard. He can't imagine anything else having such a powerful call. There may have been a time when he would have applied that same answer to Loki. It isn't a time that exists any longer. Thor is long past believing that he can understand Loki's motivations.

In any case, there is a far more pressing truth that Jane must be made aware of. "Jane," Thor begins again, "You know that you will need to stay here longer than a year or two, don't you?"

He watches Jane's arms tighten further around her folded legs. "How long?" she asks finally, the words sounding strained.

"It takes centuries for Asgardians to master magic," Thor answers quietly. "I don't understand why it has come so easily to you, but that just makes it all the more dangerous," he takes a deep breath, "You will need to stay until the All-Father is satisfied that you can be trusted not to share your knowledge with other humans, that you can control yourself, that you are the master of your own powers…"

Jane is silent. She doesn't move a muscle. Even her breathing seems stilled. There is a long moment in which Thor wonders if he has somehow broken her. Finally, she draws a ragged breath and looks up at him. Her eyes cut him to the quick, "I have a life there," she begins, with only the faintest tremble in her voice, "Am I just supposed to forget that? Forget about the people I care about?"

Thor feels faintly ill. There's compassion within him for her loss, but the All-Father's decisions are law. And Jane does not fully understand yet that she has escaped far worse fates. "It isn't your life anymore," he says, as softly as he can. But it isn't soft enough. Jane's eyes grow cold, and something behind them seems to snap. The sound that leaves her throat isn't quite human. Before he can blink, she is on her feet and gone from the room.

The blizzard that hits the coast does as much damage as the battle did and foils whatever small efforts had begun to heal Asgard's wounds. It is later that night that Odin weaves the spell upon Jane's mind, even against the advice of his wife. It is the first time Thor has heard his mother argue against his father. Her eyes are faintly accusing as she hisses that this sort of magic, this sort of lie, is exactly what drove Loki from them, what has him lost to the cosmos in a suicide mission to take out the monster who Odin has allowed to live. With wide eyes, Thor understands that Loki means to hunt out Thanos alone. This is why he has left Jane behind. This is now just one more thing he cannot tell Jane.

When she wakes, she is calm. She is filled with an easy certainty that Loki will eventually return. She is entirely certain that within a year or two she will return to earth. She is entirely incapable of acknowledging the passing of time. It makes the bearing of the lies that much easier. For her, in any case.

When Thor wakes, and for every day that he wakes after, he is uncertain. His confidence in his father has been shaken. Suddenly, everything that Loki has spat in fury and rage and madness begins to look less like insanity and more like a possible truth. If the All-Father will not hesitate to manipulate the mind of someone like Jane for the sake of the safety of the realm, Thor cannot imagine what he might do in the name of love.

* * *

_Six months after…_

Thor has spent most of his time outside of the palace. He has volunteered to lead any number of salvage and reconstruction projects. He has taken on an entirely new interest in diplomatic proceedings, which has sent him to any number of places as an observer of various diplomatic delegations. He has begun the process of pushing the council towards recognition of Midgard as a proper sovereign realm, despite their lack of clear leadership. It has kept him busy and away from Jane, thus it has accomplished his goals.

Jane has spent most of her time in the library. He understands that she is a dedicated student, willing and eager to learn. Her memory for magic's laws and principles is outstanding, and her respect for the rules and regulations that surround its use is exemplary. As is her nature, she has thrown herself into the study of magic wholeheartedly. The fact that she can't quite tell when one day ends and the next begins or that what she has perceived to be the study of a day or two has in fact spanned several weeks may help her stomach the rather reclusive life style she has adopted, but Thor suspects that such obsessive study might be the one familiar thing she has clung to. In any case, there have been no more blizzards.

* * *

_Eighteen months after…_

"So Andora points out that the Alf actually have an entirely different concept that explains the scattering of photons across an enchanted surface," Jane chatters, "And I realized that there's an entire field of comparative theory study that Dagrun hasn't even mentioned to me yet." She shakes her head in a way that sets her curls bouncing and pouts her lips in a way that unconsciously draws Thor's attention, "Its like he's purposely leaving things out."

Thor nods helplessly. He gave up trying to understand magic theory centuries ago, having never found it all that interesting himself. It's a misguided sense of guilt and concern for Jane's welfare that has had him pinned in place for over an hour as she rambles on about topics he's long-forgotten. He's half-desperate for a change of topic when he hears himself tell Jane that he's going to be visiting Midgard.

He instantly regrets it. The way her expression falters, the dimming of the light behind her eyes, borders on tragic. She's been horribly homesick, he knows. And her lack of feeling for time has made it even more difficult for her, though she would have no way of knowing any such thing. "Well," she says finally, "That's fast, isn't it? I mean, it's only been a month or so since they were all here." She forces a smile, "At least you can tell them that I'm learning so quickly that I'm almost certain to be back within that year or two I predicted."

Thor swallows hard. The sick feeling that he thought he'd finally put aside is back in full force. "Right," he says, "I'll tell them you send your regards."

"And my love to Eric," she reminds him, a true smile on her lips now, "I miss him like crazy."

"Of course," Thor tells her. He rises stiffly to go, unable to look at her straight in the face. He pauses as he passes her, letting one hand settle down onto her tiny shoulder for a moment. She feels fragile. He doesn't look down at her, letting his eyes stare off into the distance instead. It hurts him, to let this lie go on like this. But he suspects it would hurt Jane far more to know the truth.

* * *

_Five years after…_

"There's so much to learn!" Jane gushes to Embra. The Empress of Muspell is in her native form, leaving her expression entirely vague. "I'm working my way through the Alfen theories of light and transitive colouration right now, but I've got my heart set on dissecting the laws regarding the enchantment of objects."

The flame that is the empress seems to nod. "And just how long did you say you had been working on this?" she asks. There's a tone in her voice that Thor recognizes as suspicion.

"Oh, only a week or two," Jane waves a hand dismissively.

"You must spend all your time in the library."

Jane laughs, "Are you kidding? Just the other day Thor had me out horseback riding. Can you imagine? Me horseback riding?" Thor shifts uncomfortably. That particular event had occurred nearly six months ago.

Embra seems to smile (Thor can't for the life of him read the expressions of these non-substantive races). "I'm glad you're happy, Jane," she says finally, "I was worried, seeing how long its been without you being able to get back to Midgard."

"How long?" Jane prompts, "But it hasn't been that long at all."

Thor feels a wave of panic rise up within him. The empress sends him a sudden look. Her coal black eyes pin him like an insect. "How long has it been, Jane?" she asks, in a voice as slippery as oil.

"A few months?" Jane hazards. "Maybe a bit more. It's a bit fuzzy, you know? I've spent so much time learning new things. I get a bit disoriented." Jane looks to Thor, "It hasn't been quite a year yet, has it?" she asks him.

Thor looks at Jane helplessly, watching her attempt to sort out memories of several seasonal festivals and feasts. He watches her be-spelled brain overlap events into singular memories. She frowns, her forehead creases. "Not quite a year," he reassures her.

The words taste like ashes on his tongue. He feels like Embra's gaze upon him is judging him, finding him to be somehow less than previously assumed. He feels her disapproval, her rage, her frustrated displeasure over being entirely at the mercy of the All-Father. Then again, he's terrible at reading the expressions of her people. It is possible that he has merely projected his own feelings upon her.

He never used to be able to lie.

* * *

_Ten years after…_

"So what's the news?"

Thor looks up at the sound of her voice, startled by the cheer in her voice. He wants to smile at her in the warm way he remembers once being able to. But he has just returned from the fourth diplomatic session to Midgard. Time is easy to misplace on Asgard, where everyone has so long to live that they don't even try to live in a hurry. There's an entire nebulae above them to give them light, and so the seasons are dictated by the will of their own magic, rather than by any astronomical property. Thor will willingly admit that he has himself misplaced decades at a time, entirely without aid of spells or enchantment. But it's different when its Jane. It's different when ten years have passed on Midgard. It's different when he can see Jane's friends going grey, while she remains here, oblivious and untouched by time.

"Tony Stark has a son," Thor tells her, wanting to share some slice of the life she has had stolen from her.

Jane's face crinkles into a smile. "What did he do?" she laughs, "Get Pepper pregnant the moment he got home?"

Thor smiles weakly. "More or less," he says in a pantomime of honesty. It's true enough. The part he's leaving out is simply that the birthday the boy celebrated while Thor was there was his ninth.

Jane tilts her head, "I have trouble seeing Tony as a dad. Pepper, though, I can see her as an awesome mother."

Thor nods, "She does seem both firm and loving."

"Not unlike your mom," Jane tells him cheerily.

"She's been spending time with you again, then?" Thor has mixed emotions about this. He knows that his mother still fiercely opposes the deception being played around Jane. He also knows that she is skilled with magic, and thus has much she can teach Jane about controlling it.

Jane's expression goes wistful. "Sometimes I feel like she's with me just to pretend she can be close to…" She swallows hard, past the block in her throat that always forms when Loki comes up. She shakes her head, "And sometimes I think that she's almost like a surrogate mother now. I feel like I've spent so long with her, like I know her better than I knew my own mother." She gives a half-hearted smile that melts as quickly as it forms, "It's foolish. But my mother did pass away when I was just a girl, and… maybe knowing someone as an adult does let you know them better. When you're young, you're always so wrapped up in yourself… it can be hard to understand anyone else, let alone remember that understanding." She shakes her head, "But Tony Stark has a son."

"James Howard Stark."

"Classy name," Jane replies, a smile once again on her lips, "I'll look forward to meeting the little guy."

Thor realizes with a start that he is finally getting used to the half-sick feeling of lying to Jane.

* * *

_Fifteen years after…_

"Haven't you had enough?" Sif calls mockingly. Her eyes betray her enjoyment.

"Not even half," he replies, blocking the swing of her sword with the one in his own hands. Mjolnir may be his signature weapon, but any good warrior will tell you the importance of being trained in a good number and how dire the need to remain sharp in such skills can be.

"You think you can beat me with a blade, son of Odin?" Even Thor finds it a difficult task to keep pace with Sif when she has a sword in her hands. She weaves across the courtyard that is their battle field, pressing him back until he finds the minute space in which he can press back upon her. They fight with real blades – have for half of their lives. The metal flashes in the sunlight, clangs and clashes with the terrible sounds that provide the melody of the song to which they dance. A particularly difficult maneuver on his part has Sif laughing. The sound is like dark chocolate, full of depth and warmth and oh so bittersweet. If Thor could take this moment and preserve it, he would live it over and over again and never want for anything more. It's perfect.

Sif catches his blade with a twist that takes finesse that he does not possess. His sword is sent spinning, blade over pommel, through the air. It slices itself deep into the courtyard's mud. "And now, son of Odin," Sif purrs, "You are weaponless."

Thor gazes into Sif's dark eyes. Her lips wear an easy smirk and her tone is light, but there is something between them, and the longer the gaze holds, the more they both feel it. "Sif," he hears himself murmur as her smirk dissolves. There's a secret insecurity in her eyes now, but also a longing too deep to be new. Thor swallows hard, wishing that he had half the brains required to have seen it sooner. The moment stretches thin.

There's a flash of movement just beyond Sif's shoulder and Thor finds he's broken the gaze to follow it. Jane stands at the edge of the courtyard, a worn tomb clutched to her chest. "I'm sorry," she sputters as Sif turns to face her as well. From the corner of his eye, Thor watches the dark curtain of her hair fall across her expression, obscuring her from Jane's view. "I didn't mean to interrupt," Jane continues, her tone taking on a pleading note, as if she is truly pained by her interruption. "I'm really sorry," she says again, her gaze pinned neatly upon Sif.

"Nonsense," Thor hears himself say, "You didn't interrupt anything." Sif goes stiff beside him and Thor suddenly wishes that it was his head and not his sword blade that was buried in the mud. He's so clumsy with this. Sif has always been his friend, his partner in battle, his equal… he struggles to come to terms with this other thing that is between them. He can't even decide how long it has been there, with him being always so blind.

Jane nods uncomfortably. "Um," she begins, the true nature of her mood emerging, "Do you have a minute, Thor? I… I need to ask you something. Or… tell you maybe." She shakes her head, and Thor suddenly sees how shaken she is. He nods and follows her into the gardens. She takes twists and turns through the shrubbery that he is not familiar with and when they emerge into a strange, pocketed garden, he almost jumps in surprise.

Jane settles onto an old, seemingly petrified, log that has fallen so perfectly that it is almost certain that it has been placed. The log serves as a bench and has ever since Loki spelled this particular garden into existence. A narrow stone path winds its way through juniper and dwarf spruce. A single maple leans over the log, providing shade. Poisonous tysbast, with its stunning violet flowers, blooms forever against the dark green background of the hedges. "This garden has enchantments around it," Jane says quietly, "So no one can overhear."

Thor settles down onto the log beside her. This much he already knows. The garden is a product of Loki's youth and many happy hours were once spent here in avoidance of various tutors and palace staff. Thor looks about the garden for a moment, shaking his head as he realizes that nothing has changed. The plants are ever-blooming, the shrubs remain perfectly trimmed. Invisible hands do the gardening here. "I always thought that no one but Loki could find this place," he admits finally.

"My magic is a lot like his," Jane says quietly. "They can't tell me if its because he's the one who first taught me, or if… or if its something else. They've all been pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing." Jane's fingers flex against the aged leather of the book in her arms. She's clutching it to her as if it is all that holds her to the ground. Thor watches as she looks everywhere but at him, "Its one of the reasons I went looking for more information."

Thor sits back a bit further. It seems evident to him that Jane has stumbled across at least one of Asgard's many secrets. He hopes that it is her own secrets she has unearthed, even as he fears for her fate and suspects otherwise. This secretive reaction is not one she would have to her own fate.

"You know I stay up a lot of nights studying," she begins. "I'm alone in the library a lot, and it means that I sometimes… go into the sections where they don't let you go during the day. Behind the doors and into the closed cupboards and such." She bites her lower lip and worries it between her teeth. "I probably know a lot more about things than I should," she says.

Thor watches her expectantly. There's a small part of him that is reminded of sitting here with Loki as a child. Even then, though Thor was the one who led them into danger and excitement, Loki unearthed secrets. With the same strangely solemn tone as Jane uses now, Loki would share whatever wondrous or terrible secret he had discovered with Thor. Together they would decide what to do about it. Only partly conscious of it, Thor is waiting for the pattern to unfold.

"I found this book," Jane says finally, after having watched him with a searching gaze for a long moment. "It's from the last Ice War. The third one. Or rather, its from just after it. It turns out that one of the youngest of the fighters tried teaching magic to Midgardians in an attempt to give them some protection from the Jotun."

Thor blinks. There's something familiar about Jane's story. "I," he starts, "We were there. In the last war. It wasn't really part of the Ice Wars, more of a… skirmish." Thor's forehead wrinkles in thought, "But I don't remember it."

"No," Jane says quietly, "You wouldn't."

Thor looks at her askance. Jane just shrugs her shoulders at him, "You aren't going to like this. There's a reason I brought you here to tell you." Thor waits quietly. Jane will tell him, just as Loki always would, after a little theatrics for their own sake. Jane sighs heavily and releases the book from her grasp. "That young fighter was Loki. He tried teaching magic to mortals. They became so powerful, so fast, that Asgard got scared. Odin decided that they would be stripped of the magic and it left them dead. Not instantly though, they died slow, from what must have been withdrawal." Jane speaks as if from a distance, as if she has purposely made herself remote for this. "There was a point when Loki blocked my magic, just for a little while. It was," Jane shakes her head as if lost for words, "It was the worst thing. Like a part of my brain had been cut out." She is shaking now, her hands repeatedly smoothing themselves over the faded leather of the book. "If that had been permanent… I don't know… " her voice rises in pitch, "Thor, it would just be horrible!"

There's a little piece of Thor that is squirming back into place. He can see the humans now, in their furs and leathers, collapsing down into shadows of themselves, left to suffer their fates. And Thor suddenly wonders just how much they have all been made to forget. Just how many of those decades he thinks he has lost track of were made to be that way. Just how lost they really are under the All-Father's well-intentioned and deeply protective rule.

With his elbows on his knees, Thor buries his face in his hands and tries to remember how to breath. The lies _are_ thick then, and perhaps Loki's madness has always only been the realization of this fact. Beside him, Thor can feel Jane shaking like a leaf. "Humans aren't allowed to be taught magic because we're good at it, Thor," she says finally. "They're scared at how good we are at it. They're scared we're going to upset the balance of things."

They sit in silence for a long time. "Jane," Thor says quietly, "You should get out of the library sometimes." Jane turns and looks at him with something bright and angry behind her eyes. Thor shakes his head, "I think you should come to weapons practice with us sometimes. You should know how to fight."

Jane's fury melts away to reveal a dawning understanding. Her face goes pale as her lips pull taunt. "You're probably right," she agrees.

The next day, Jane begins to learn how to fight.

* * *

_Twenty years after…_

"But I could use Jane," Thor insists.

The council sits with frowns so deep that they seem to spring directly from the wrinkles that surround their mouths. Odin's is deepest of all. "You do not feel that might be dangerous?" he asks in a tone that gives nothing away but suggests everything.

"The only reason it may be dangerous," Thor retorts, "Is if she discovers the truth of what we have done to her. And that is a truth we owe her and her people."

"Perhaps," Odin admits, "But not at this point in time. Neither the girl nor her people are at a level where they can appreciate what we do. They cannot put such things into perspective."

"Perspective," Thor spits, "If perspective is what has nine old men afraid to let me take a fine young warrior out to put her skills to use on a realm further from Midgard and our own lies than she is right now, then I pray I never gain it!"

Needless to say, the council eventually relents. Thor can be persuasive when he's insulting the pride of warriors three times his age.

And so it is that Jane is a member of Thor's team. They travel by Bifrost (finally fully rebuilt) to the surface of a planet that is defined almost entirely by the colour grey. Grey skies hover over grey mountains that sit upon plateaus of grey.

"Why are we here, again?" Volstagg rumbles, "Nothing but scrub rats and demi-dragons in this forsaken place."

"Dragons?" Jane repeats, her eyes wide with sudden excitement.

"Demi-dragons," Thor corrects. "They're sort of long but short, with wide-splayed legs and fierce, tiny eyes."

"And they don't breath fire, do they?"

Volstagg snorts, "Unless you count the smell if you get too close to their mouths!"

Jane sighs, "Who would build a camp here?" She looks around them with an expression of tired interest. Thor watches her carefully. There was a time when Jane was desperate to see other worlds. The fact that she is not excited by her first trip off Asgard in twenty years is worrying to him. Time is wearing down upon her, though her body cannot feel it and she remains unaware. He watches as Jane runs her hands down the leather of the armour he finally convinced the palace smiths to forge her. There is a small smile playing across her lips and it is enough for Thor.

"Rebel Dvergar build camps in places like this," Sif says briskly, "And that's exactly who we're here to find." Her dark eyes shine like a predator's in the grey light and Thor feels the thrill of the hunt rise up in his own veins.

"Remember," he insists, "We are to take them alive. No deaths unless they absolutely cannot be avoided."

"Bah," Volstagg growls, "You were fun once!"

Jane shakes her head. "I think I'm glad I missed those years," she says with a wry smile.

As it turns out, they do not find the Dvergar rebels. Rather, the rebels find them. From under mats woven of the grey scrub and tall grasses of the plateau, the Dvergar strike. Thor remembers now that Dvergar have no aversion to the dirt and the dark. Such a trick should have been anticipated. Then again, there's the ghost of a smile on Jane's lips that suggests to Thor that perhaps they have not _all_ been taken by surprise. He notes to himself that he should mention the importance of such warnings to her when they return. But then he watches her fight, and finds that he has changed his mind.

For while they have stumbled into the Dvergar trap, the rebels have stumbled into Jane's. Back-to-back with Sif, Thor watches as a rebel slices down through the space that had been Jane. Several of the Dvergar stare at the empty space in surprise. All eight of them suddenly find their feet pulled out from under them. As if they are pulled by invisible strings, they are dragged back into the holes from which they emerged. Thor and the rest of them tower over the holes, glaring sharply down as they pluck the weapons from the rebels' hands.

"That was hardly a bit of fun," Volstagg grumbles as Jane strolls up in front of them wearing a smirk.

"I thought you said this might be a challenge, Thor," she calls.

Thor smiles at her. The wear of casting so much magic in such a short time leaves her tired for days. But he never has to implore the council to take her with again. There's no denying Jane's usefulness after a stunt like that one.

* * *

_Twenty-three years after…_

Thor stands in his room outfitted in a new crimson cape and armour that has been polished to a shine. He has been chosen to lead the last delegation visit in the treaty drafting with Midgard. After this visit, Midgard will finally have its proper status within Yggdrasil, as a sovereign realm capable of full treaty and trade privileges.

"I want to come with," Jane says from the doorway. Her tone brooks no argument. She is dressed in her own armour and looks like some ancient goddess of the hunt. She wears light armour, comprised of reinforced, heavily enchanted leather that has been dyed a rich, deep brown. Accents in burgundy and bronze add a touch of colour. She wears tall leather boots, one of which boasts the handle of a single dagger. She wears another strapped to her side. Her wavy tresses are pulled back. She looks good as a warrior. Asgardian dress suits her, though life in Asgard has not. She expression is closed off now, where once it was open.

"You know you cannot," Thor tells her with a sigh.

"Because the All-Father says I can't?" she demands with a fire in her eyes.

"Because there are some things even I cannot convince the council of."

Jane looks at him for a long moment. "I know Odin did something to my mind," she says quietly. "I _know_ its been more than two years. I can _feel_ the way my memories are layering on top of themselves. I can remember wearing at least ten different dresses to the Harvest Feast. I somehow doubt I went through that many changes of clothes."

There's something caustic in Jane's tone that tells Thor that she has been holding this back for a long time. She has to have been. They see each other every day now, fight side-by-side (well, perhaps she is generally off to one side, but that is where her magic is most useful). It makes Thor nervous to hear this now, however, when there is truly so little he can do. He can never simply violate the word of his father.

"So, how long has it been?" Jane insists, "Five years? Ten years? A hundred?" She strolls into his room with a fierceness that he knows he has himself encouraged. She winds around him like a wolf circling its prey.

"Take her."

The voice that cuts through the air with a distinctness Thor has never heard belongs to his mother. Frigga stands at the doorway with a hand on her heart. "Take her," she repeats, her tone softening, "She deserves to know what we have taken from her."

Beside him, Jane goes still. There's an uncertainty in her expression that says all to plainly that she isn't really ready for the truth she has scraped the surface of. Thor looks from Jane to his mother and back again. He nods once. Perhaps he can defy his father after all, so long as he is not alone.


	43. Chapter 43

Loki leaves Asgard with his heart in pieces. There's nothing right or real in the universe and even though he has known this for a long time now, it feels like he is learning it all over again. He's slipped through to a nowhere place: a barren scrap of rock and ice on the edges of a star system he doesn't recognize. It is dark and it is cold and that is entirely how he prefers it as he mourns the passing of the lives that could have been his.

He's decided that the only way to be free is to fight for it. He will fight Thanos. He will fight the All-Father. He will take the universe out of their hands and leave it to its own devices. He's entirely past the idea of ruling it or destroying it himself. He has no desire to have that kind of control over its fate. But he's also done with having anyone else pretend that they have that power either. He'll free the universe from their grasping fingers and then he'll be finished. His part of the story will be over. He's left behind the only things he really wants anyway.

There are a terribly large number of things he must do now, but he is tired. Tired of the fighting, of the trying, of the failing. It's a tiredness that seeps into his bones and Loki realizes suddenly that he should never have stopped moving for a moment, because a moment is all it takes for a body to remember how little there is to keep it going. So he stands there, on the barren scrap of rock and stares at the empty cold space ahead of him. There is a complete lack of momentum within him.

Even the stars feel cold and distant here. Each pinprick of light has its own colour. They run the spectrum, from purest white to deepest red and back again. They are magnificent in their distance. Perfectly aloof, perfectly alone. He wonders if stars have souls. If they have conscious thought. He hopes they do not. He knows only too well what madness can be produced from this.

And suddenly he's caught in the intricate web of memories that comprises his life. There's a vast cold lake in the middle of them, too deep and dark to penetrate. That is his time with Thanos. There are golden afternoons of childhood. There are beautiful, poisonous flowers.

He stops.

There is one truth about memories. They are entirely mutable. They can be misremembered, changed, erased, altered beyond recognition. His own memories have been nothing but playthings to creatures with powers greater than his own. Thanos has warped them beyond even what his own twisting emotions could manage. Odin has periodically removed things, smoothed things, taken the sting out of his perhaps justified rage. So his memories are not his own. They bear as little resemblance to reality as a child's telling of story once heard from a distance about impossible things.

He still does not understand why they would do such a thing. He is painfully insignificant: the foundling child of a broken race. He's less loved than most. He's damaged and full of failure. He's a dark shadow that fell across the golden dream of Asgard for a time and then fell away just as quickly as he appeared. He is nothing against the ancient evil of Thanos or the righteous power and glory of the All-Father. He's a disappointment. He can't even love properly, leaving the girl behind voluntarily instead of fighting for anything worth having for a change. He's not worth the time or effort to manipulate or control. He can't understand why they don't see it.

And then, like a shot in the dark, he does.

There's something cold and alive in his veins. He feels it whisper in words that have no form and impulses that predate the order of good versus evil. There's something woven into the very fabric of himself that shivers beneath the silence of his own self-awareness. It raises a lazy tendril and trembles beneath the spotlight that has suddenly been thrown upon it. Magic moves inside of him, looking back at him with its own eyes and giving a careless nod of recognition. Its as if its saying, "Oh, there you are. _Finally_. I've been waiting for so very long…" And Loki, having nothing else left to him, listens. The magic uncoils within him and tells him stories. It spins back the yarn of his own life, telling him in images and emotions the true history of the being it has inhabited for so very long. And then, when it has finished that task, and Loki is able to look at his life with all the wonder of someone coming home to themselves and their truest nature, it tells him of the time before his own existence, of the way the universe once was. Of a species who reached for the stars and found magic, and all those who have tried since and found nothing but rules and a pre-established order.

Loki has always been good at quiet, secret rebellions. He might be known as the liesmith, but his greatest work has always been in exposing them. He is known as the trickster, but he's really just good at embracing chaos. As magic speaks to him, in its strange, most secret way, he understands, he sympathizes, he relates. And he finally knows why magic has always felt like a friend to him. More importantly, he sees who he has really been. Who he has had the opportunity to be. And he understands now, that the twisting, the confused destruction of his own self, has been the product of something besides a defect in his own character. He's been measuring himself against a corrupt standard unit, blind to the damage of the system. He's not a disappointment. He's not a failure.

He's an impossible thing. And he knows why Thanos and Odin have tried so hard to control him.

When he opens his eyes, the stars greet him. They don't burn for anyone. They burn because they want to burn, because it is their choice to do so.

And Loki burns. Because now he remembers too many things that weren't meant to be remembered. And he knows just how much danger he has left Jane in, and how incomparably pointless it is to have done so. He has no concept of how long he has spent in this empty place, but he doesn't take the time to add another second to it.

* * *

At any point after, he's never sure why he makes the assumption he does. Deep down, he knows its because the alternatives are painful, perhaps too painful. But he won't give voice to fears like that when he has the one being in the universe he loves best wrapped up in his arms and he refuses to think them when she isn't. In any case, when Loki finds his feet on solid ground again, its in the middle of Stark Tower and he's not even remotely close to visible. He can see the things he's done clearly now, and he can't blame the Avengers for anything now. He just hopes that they've done what they do best and protected people. Well, one person in particular.

But she isn't there. She's not in the labs that Stark had given her. Those sit empty and abandoned, the occasional paper having slipped from the wall and drifted to the floor. There's an eerie feeling in there. Like something has been irretrievably lost. She isn't in the suites or the R&D division. She isn't in the employee directory on the Tower hard drive. She's nothing but a distant ghost in JARVIS's memory banks. It has him distinctly unnerved.

So he waits and watches and tracks the various Avengers through the Tower. He listens to them talk and strains for any word of Jane. They banter and they plan and they comment on everything imaginable, but they never so much as reference Jane Foster. The hours pass and Loki finds himself dogging their steps, hoping for anything, any crumb of information that could prove or disprove his worst fears.

He fixates on Bruce with the knowledge that this is the one who will have the least fear of him, knowing himself what its like to regret the actions of a monster that lives inside your own skin. It's a fragile connection, but he follows it to Bruce's apartment, exactly nineteen blocks down from Stark Tower, despite the fact that there are a series of suites within the Tower labeled with his name. The apartment is small, with a kitchen barely separated from a living space that is dominated by a worn-out couch. Somewhere behind him, there is a cramped hallway that leads to a very small and very plain bedroom. There's something about the space that Loki identifies with. He thinks it's the human equivalent of a rock in space.

Bruce pulls a brown-tinted bottle from the fridge, cracks off the top and takes a sip. He pauses for a moment, head cocked at an angle as if listening for something. He grabs another bottle before letting the door slide shut. Loki watches from a place behind the couch as Bruce sets down the bottles, one on each side of the stained coffee table. He settles onto the couch with a heavy sigh and leans into a corner. The television, the only new thing in the apartment, lights up and begins to tell, in classic Earth media style, how wonderfully successful the diplomatic delegations with Asgard are going. Thor, looking shiny and worn all at once, moves across the screen, shaking hands with various humans wearing smiles bigger and faker than the poor shade Thor is managing. The date runs across the corner of the screen, marking February 19th, 2015 as a landmark day in Earth's history. Loki suppresses a shudder. He does not want to acknowledge how long he has spent out in the dark of space and the cold of his own mind.

The report wraps up and Loki watches Bruce lean forward, picking up the television remote. The word "Mute" slips across the screen in bright green letters.

"You know she's still there, right?" Bruce says. His voice is clear, but hides a note of anger beneath it. The crouch of his shoulders tells Loki more than he wants to hear. He watches Bruce lean back into his corner, eyes never leaving the silent, but still moving screen. "If you don't drink beer, there's some of the expensive stuff Tony drinks in the kitchen. You're welcome to it. God knows I can't stomach it."

Its an awkward, silent moment, but Loki takes it. He's not as aloof as he's believed himself to be, and he's not hardly above sharing ale with Midgardians. He can trust his memories now.

He sinks down into the empty corner of the couch. He remembers another couch with a fondness that has his heart hurting in a very physical way. Long, pale fingers reach for the bottle and play over the cheap labeling. His jaw is stiff, and by the date he knows its been well over a Midgardian year since he's spoken even a single word out loud. "They," and the word has the dry, rattling shape of an autumn leaf, "They kept her then."

"Mhmph," Bruce's gaze does not leave the screen, "Isn't that what you wanted? Someone else to clean up your mess?"

There's something inane happening on the screen before him. Kittens are chasing toilet paper rolls around a house, leaving it hung in draperies of white. It's the universe mocking him again. Except that it isn't. Not really. It is simply the product of having a conversation in front of a human television. Loki feels a broken smile edge onto his lips. "But she's alive," he says finally.

Bruce looks at him now, his face suddenly etched into an expression of horror. "You mean there was a possibility she might not be?" he demands. The patches of grey at his temples have widened, the crow's feet at his eyes have deepened. He's aged in this time. Perhaps more than he was meant to.

Loki meets the man's gaze for a moment, then lets it fall. The kittens are still tumbling across the television screen. He's terribly thankful that he's foregone the formal armour. He couldn't stomach his own vanity right now. "Not that I knew about then," he says finally. The bottle on the table rolls between his hands and he lifts it to his mouth. The liquid is a bit sharp, a bit thick, a bit bitter. He can't live on magic forever, his body suddenly reminds him.

Bruce is staring at him silently. The horror melts into rage. The rage melts, slowly, into something that might one day become forgiveness. "I thought you knew everything," Bruce says, the sarcasm dying on his tongue.

"Apparently, so did I," Loki replies without missing a beat. The kittens have given away to a bright blue car careening around mountain roads. Tiny white words proclaim that this is a closed course. Loki takes another long sip of the bitter liquid, "I was wrong."

" 'Least you can admit it." Bruce takes a sip of the beer in his own hands. "So is this about getting her back then?"

"Can't," Loki takes a shuddering breath, "The doors to Asgard have all been closed. There's no way to get in."

"Can they do that?"

Loki considers. There have been long stretches of his life that have been spent believing that only he is aware of the wormholes that open and close and span across space. There are patterns in his memories though, etched by a heavy hand. He knows Odin knows of them. Knows how to seal them, even if he can't use them to travel. "They can do anything," Loki says.

"Thor said," Bruce pauses and gives him a sharp look, as if he half-expects just the name to send him into a fit of madness. Loki doubts he deserves better. He says nothing, remains impassive as Bruce watches him with the type of care normally reserved for invalids or the mentally ill. "Thor said," he finally continues, "That she's fine. That she's driving the tutors to distraction with how fast she learns everything. Apparently she's devouring the library at a rate they haven't seen in millennia. She's healthy. She's not alone. She doesn't really know she's a prisoner."

"So Odin reached in and ripped something out of her mind then." The words have a hollow sound to them, and it takes Loki a moment to realize that he's the one who's said them. It's only the second or third worst fate he's come to realize Jane could encounter, but its still something he would have spared her.

Bruce's expression has something of surprise in it, but there's a deeper analysis happening. "You say that like you have experience," he says finally, in a voice holding less judgment than any he has offered to Loki yet.

Loki doesn't know it, but his eyes scream a sort of anguish when he finally meets Bruce's gaze. It's the first time Bruce ever feels sympathy for the poor devil. It isn't the last time he offers him a beer.

* * *

The truth is, there's only so much time that can be spent regretting one's decisions. There's only so long that one can spend trying to undo that which has been done. Eventually, one needs to move forward and let things work out whatever way they will. Even Loki becomes aware of this and gives up trying to find ever more secret ways into Asgard. The truth is that he must wait for Jane to leave Asgard to make his move, and realistically, the pair of them actually have eternity. It takes a little time to put things into that kind of perspective, but the fact that Thanos is still after him adds a bit of pressure to the situation.

It's a funny twist of fate then, that it isn't Loki who defeats Thanos. In a move that he actually playfully labels "out-sourcing," he lets the Avengers take care of the incoming threat. Midgard really is a magnet for misplaced aggression, and in the end, letting them and their swelling ranks of heroes deal with the threat is just more in line with his end goal of freeing the universe from any one entity's control. He even gives them a few free pointers and identifies the few weaknesses he's been able to identify over the preceding decade. It's a bright spot in the waiting game that he's playing. The greatest joke, of course, is how Bruce and Tony work so hard to keep his contributions secret from Thor. That they succeed worries him only a little.

There's something wearing down upon the bright prince of Asgard, and though no one mentions it, Loki is left with the haunting feeling that it somehow relates back to Jane. It takes him a day or two, but he finally catches them giving him looks that border on sympathetic. He leaves. Kilketh Prime has some problems he might just feel useful solving.

* * *

He misses the first time Jane leaves Asgard. He hears second-hand from a drunken Dvergar the tale of Thor and the Warriors Three and their new sorceress. Apparently the battle against the rebel force was so short-lived that not a drop of blood was spilled (which turned out to be for the best, as the rebels' only true crime was the publishing of a monthly newsletter and the poaching of a lesser noble house's darkbuck). There's a strange feeling in his veins as he listens to the story. There's a pleasant buzz in his head and a burst of pride in his heart. She's his student and the one he loves, and he can't quite say how happy he is to hear she's not only alive, but doing things that are so entirely _Jane_ – like capturing rebels alive despite the rather blood-thirsty tendencies of the Warriors Three. She's got her own view of the universe and he finally fully appreciates that.

The idea that Jane might still be his affects him like a drug. He's suddenly hyper-aware of the re-constructed Bifrost and the places that it goes. He prowls the edges of the space he doesn't dare to enter, following the traces of magic and badgering them until they give up their secrets. With emerald eyes alight with hope and desire, he follows the burst of light across the cosmos. He emerges into the pale blue light of a half-dead planet with a dying star. He's invisible, unsure how she will react to him, unsure how many she travels with.

They've beat him here with enough time that they have already found the poor beast who must be the object of their quest. The balaur towers over them, its beady black eyes betraying the simplicity of its thoughts. It beats its clumsy limbs against the ground, its three heads weaving through the air on lengthy, sinuous necks. It's teeth drip with the poison that Thor has undoubtedly been charged with retrieving. It is a prized ingredient on Asgard. The properties of a venom that contains irradiated stardust are numerous. The balaur flaps its damaged wings, gaining nothing but a mournful, keening sound as the heavy air rips through them.

"Do we really need to kill it?" The words are faint, traveling a fair enough distance to reach him, but they are like a balm to his soul. Loki stares at Jane like a starved man, drinking in the way her tousled curls move as she shakes her head in wonder at the poor, downed star beast. She's clad in Asgardian leather armour, in shades that bring to mind the falling of leaves in autumn. When the creature strikes, her movements are like poetry. She leaps and dodges, spinning and darting, evading the balaur's flashing fangs. In the time it takes to blink, there's a gossamer net thrown across the thrashing heads.

"Well," she demands, "Restrain it!" There's a momentary pause before the warriors heed her. Loki feels his jaw tighten. There's something in their hesitancy that is only too familiar. But these are old hurts, and Loki swallows them back down. He watches as Thor nears the beast, a flask in his hands. He lowers it to the dripping fangs on the nearest head.

Sound is trapped in his throat as Loki watches the net slip in Fandral's hands. Recaptured a moment too late, the head jerks. Then the net is let entirely free. Heavy male hands fall to weapons made familiar by the ages and in the space of a second, two of the three heads have been cut clean through. The third thrashes as violet blood spurts from its severed stumps. The creature rocks to its feet, its remaining head snapping blindly. Poisonous fangs cut through metal armour like butter and shear into soft flesh. Loki watches silently as Jane's scream pierces the air. Thor falls to the ground like a stone, even as Hogun's sword splits the remaining neck.

In what feels like slow motion, he watches Jane leap over the bloodied carcass. Her expression is wild, her hands flutter like bird's wings until the moment they smooth across the breastplate of Thor's armour. His feet have brought him somehow closer to them, and he can see the anguish written across her face. Those caramel eyes he's dreamed about have room for only one thing, and that is Thor's terribly pale face. Her head falls until her forehead is pressed against his. Her lips move slowly, whispering something that pastes a smile across Thor's lips, despite the cough that wracks his body. Jane's hands are coated in his blood, pressed as they are to the wound in his side. She is on her knees in the mud, desperation written in the muscles and tendons of her body. She whispers something else and leans into him with a lover's intimacy. With eyes closed, she presses her lips against his forehead.

Loki remembers telling Jane that he is better dead. That with him gone, she might still be able to go back to her first choice. She is immortal after all, with the grace and fierce strength of queen. She is full of love and, really, he can think of no one better to take the place of Frigga. But he thinks it distantly, as if through a fog. There's a pain in him that is worse than physical. It isn't betrayal – if anything, she should hold that crime against him. It's something worse. It's moving on when he is trapped by the warmth of her eyes and the comfort of her embrace and the pure acceptance of him that only she can offer.

So he runs. Runs through door after door until he ends up once again taking refuge on a human's old, battered couch. Bruce says nothing, but it's the first time he touches Loki: an awkward pat on the shoulder that reminds the god that he is, in fact, real. Loki realizes then, that he would far rather be a ghost. He stays only long enough to hear that Thor is returning to Earth as the head of the last diplomatic session required to cement Earth's place as an ally of Asgard rather than a protectorate. It means that he's lived. Wearily, Loki realizes that he doesn't even bear him a grudge. He just hopes Thor will love Jane half as much as he does.


	44. Chapter 44

_Before I start this chapter, there's a few notes… A) The balaur is actually a multi-headed dragon-like creature from Romanian myth (thank you Wikipedia). I did embellish it slightly, giving it the ability to travel through space and reroute absorbed stellar radiation into its venom, but its not really mine. B) I am terribly sorry about the extended delay in getting this chapter out. I have all the rest of this story planned out… but a series of events, fortunate and less so, have severely interfered with my writing. Hopefully it won't be too long before I wrap this up and then there will just be closure. Thank you (immensely huge heaps of thank you) to everyone who has stuck with me this long._

* * *

There's a cold stone in the pit of Jane's stomach. They have ridden out to the end of the Bifrost, stand waiting to go to Earth. There's a wary tenseness in the bones and sinews of the delegation party. Jane shouldn't be there. Earth is still forbidden to her. Yet this is a fact that they are, apparently, all meant to ignore. Thor's eyes still give away the game. His gaze flicks rapidly between Jane, the Palace as it rises in the distance behind them, and the icy glare Sif has been favouring him with since the moment it was mentioned that Jane would be accompanying him to Earth. She has hissed, in a voice so low that only Thor and Jane can hear it, that if Jane goes, so does she.

Jane shuffles awkwardly. It is true, that she's proven herself incapable of protecting Thor. Even now he moves just a little slower. Trying to save a three-headed dragon seems a lot less important now that she's seen the real potential lethality of its poison. Even immortal beings can die, and she doubts that the guilt she's felt while watching Thor thrash in anguish will ease any time soon. She can still feel the talon-like grip of Sif's nails in the flesh of her forearm, see the white-lipped fear in her face. No, there is nothing that will keep Sif from Thor's side now.

Even with eyes averted, Jane can see hands press nervously. Sif stands firm, her eyes hard and cold, unwavering. Thor meets her eyes, forgetting momentarily the threat of Jane's insistent revolt in the face of love and loyalty. "You know best," he says finally, quietly. The words are a ghost in the still air between them. Sif relaxes, only slightly. She leans and presses lips against his with a chasteness and calm that isn't normally a part of her nature.

Jane is just a minor concern against this personal drama, forgotten in the face of passion. Defying Odin is almost theoretical compared to the practical concerns involved in navigating a newly married life with Sif. Jane does not begrudge Thor the task. Nor does she resent his happiness. Some things are simply meant to be.

There's a pressure at the base of her skull that prods her insistently. Some things are meant to be, it repeats in the voice that isn't a voice. It's grown so much stronger since the moment, when on her knees in the mud, she whispered aloud the words that gave it presence. "Please," she hears herself croak in the memory that doesn't stay dead, "I'll do anything you want. Just let him live." The voice that isn't a voice took over from there. Magic worked through her and saved him, flowing into his suddenly fragile form and holding him together from the inside out. But accepting it as something other, something apart from her, something greater than simply an energy, is a direct violation of every Asgardian text on magic. So she doesn't name it. She simply carries it with her, in the place where her skull meets her neck, the voice that isn't a voice, giving suggestions and advice she doesn't need to take. Freedom, it whispers. It isn't as dangerous as one educated solely on Asgardian texts would think. It's prices are not so very high.

"Now you must go," Heimdall announces solemnly. His bottomless gaze sweeps over their small party, lingers on the golden-silver towers of Asgard, drifts back into space. He gives a tight nod, as if he can hear an unspoken command. For a moment, Jane freezes, knowing that the path will be blocked. "Frigga, sends her regards," Heimdall adds, with eyes that seem to be for Thor but fall upon Jane at the last. Jane swallows an unnaturally large gasp of air, and then she is falling, flying, falling again.

* * *

Earth. Earth is solid land. Dirt-mud-soil. The place of things that grow and die and grow again. She's outside of that now but its smell is still home. Dry desert dust in her nostrils and her grasping fingers and uncomfortable in the places it seeps into the armour that isn't crafted with deserts in mind. When she raises her head, she sees a symphony of familiar stars and constellations that summon back her youth and her most fragile dreams that she might one day, somehow, be _among_ those stars. Dreams seem naïve in the face of reality.

The symphony ends because its partly imagined. Sun-bright floodlights fill the desert, shining down upon them. Men in black clothes. No, men and women in SHIELD-issue paramilitary uniforms with built-in Kevlar or its latest variant hover around them, at the edges of the light. They're nervous in the way stagehands are in front of actors. Busy, brusque, waiting for the scene to end so they can uproot the shape of the stage, but unable to enter the lighted area themselves. Unwilling to meet the eyes of the actors playing characters bigger than themselves.

Like ants, Jane thinks distantly. A nervous giggle falls from her. She wants too badly to see real people. Humans in human clothes with human eyes. Not the blacked-out spaces of SHIELD-issue sunglasses that create these strange insects. She's desperate for home. She doesn't know how many years she's longed for it, but she can taste it in her mouth. Salt and bile and New Mexico sand on her tongue.

"Jane," Thor's voice is tender as his hand falls heavily upon her shoulder, "Are you alright?" Sif's eagle eyes judge her even when she can't see them. Jealousy where none needs to exist.

"I'm fine," she squeaks, eyes blinking in the bright lights, "I'm just not meant for centre-stage." Success. A human smile on the closest agent. Human hands reach for her, welcome her home. It's a fever dream really. As far as the agent is concerned, she's Asgardian too. For all intensive purposes she might as well be. But under the borrowed immortality is a human heart. Her skin touches the agent's dry palm and Jane shivers. Now she knows what its like to live in a skin that isn't her skin.

There's a flurry of activity and Jane is guided down white canvas halls. She's smiling with half-memories. Turning her head, Thor catches her gaze and winks. He remembers it too, this strange way of meeting and learning to trust that exists in their private history. All that is missing is Agent Coulson with his tight smile and sympathetic but unyielding words. Some things stay lost. Jane looks for Hawkeye, but he's not here either.

There is, however, a darkness at the end of the tunnel. A darkness and a figure that stands in those shadows, back to them, eyes on the helicopter lights that flash in the dark beyond. He's tall and trim and dark-haired, and Jane _knows_ him from the way he carries himself. The angle of his arms and his head as he considers the metallic bird, looking for ways to make it better. She knows them all now, better than she ever could have had she been returned to Earth at their sides.

"Tony!" she calls as they near, her footsteps light on the metal walkway beneath them. The man turns, familiar features etched into a confused frown. Jane hears her footsteps slow. They don't do it of any conscious instruction. "Tony," she begins again, her mouth suddenly dry, "You look… really good. Young good. Too young…" she's rambling now. Is it possible that the walkway sways?

The man's frown travels into an embarrassed smile. "Oh," he says in a voice that is whiskey-smooth, "You must be Doctor Jane Foster. Allow me to introduce myself," he inclines his head with an old-fashioned gentleman's style, "I'm James…"

"Howard Stark," Jane finishes. It isn't just the floodlights that make her eyes look flat. Her mouth works for a moment after, as if there are words without sound that still need to be spoken.

"I'm often told I look much like my father," the dashing young man continues, a light in his eyes as his gaze travels up and down Jane's lightly-armoured form.

"Jane," a new voice interrupts from behind them. With a desperation that hasn't quite entered her conscious thoughts, Jane thrashes through the handful of Asgardians in the delegation to the empty place beyond. There is a different man standing there. Dressed in a black, tailored suit, an elegant cane grasped in one hand in a manner suggesting that its presence is an accoutrement rather than a necessity, the man stands with studied posture. A faint glow filters through the fabric at his chest. By that glow, one could imagine that the dark hair and tidy beard are still jet black, but under the unforgiving floodlights, their salt-and-pepper nature cannot be unseen. There are laugh lines around that smile. There's no lack of appreciation for grand gestures though, and Tony Stark opens his arms wide to receive the suddenly bolting mass of tearful creature that hurtles towards him.

Jane hits Tony's open embrace with a force that is only measured at the last possible second. Once it wouldn't have been enough to earn a gasp. This merits a wobbling step back and a gentle wheeze. "Oh god," Jane gasps, "Tony – "

"Shhh, there, there, now," he murmurs fatherly into her ear, "You're home now."

"Now," Jane attempts, the word becoming sawed in half by an entirely messy sob and descending down the register into an inelegant howl. He holds her, lets her bawl into his arms like a child. Patting her back and letting her rock them both with the force of her homesick, dumbstruck grief.

By the time the storm has past, the white canvas hall has taken on an atmosphere of embarrassed incredulity in every corner except the bubble in which Tony Stark holds onto the long-lost child of Earth. She settles back, hands still on arms in either direction, binding her down onto solid ground. "How long," she croaks, begins again, "How long has it been?"

Tony gives her his old, lightning-quick smile. Eyes that are older, more tired, more worn, shine with familiar emotions. The gesture tugs at Jane's heart, eats at the warm contented place inside her that has contended this long time that everything is alright. "Twenty-three years, nineteen weeks, four days," he shrugs, "I did the math. Figured you'd want to know the exact numbers. Takes a scientist to know one."

Jane nods numbly. There's a detached part of her brain that appreciates the gesture. The part that is still firmly attached, however, is howling in a maelstrom of useless emotion. But somehow, out from under all the horror and the pain, one promise rises up and wonders if it too late. The name makes it to Jane's lips, and she feels them work numbly around the syllable. "Eric?" she whispers.

Tony's face gives away everything and nothing all at once. His eyes narrow, the fine wrinkles at their corners deepening. His mouth tightens into a small, straight line. His head falls to the side, not quite a shake. "He's… its not good, Jane," he says quietly, "But at least you'll get the chance to say goodbye."

Jane isn't sure she will ever find the end to her tears.

* * *

The young Stark goes with the Asgardians. The old Stark stands by her even now. Aged eyes follow her, drinking her in with a fevered excitement she doesn't understand. Jane feels remote. She's been separated from this world for too long, and she feels it now that she knows the number of years. There's a weight on her heart now.

Her forehead rests against the cold wall. Her hand made it to the handle of the door before freezing in place. A glimpse through the door's tiny observation window revealed things she isn't ready to process. How could she have missed the entire gap of years in which Eric became such an old man? He's shrunk to a frail last gasp almost lost in the whiteness of the hospital grade linens that surround him. If a glimpse has halt her in her tracks, she's suddenly terrified of full blown reality.

Tony waits by her elbow, patience apparently having been finally cultivated. She breathes a slow, ragged breath. The hot air condenses against the chill metal of the doorframe as she turns her head, letting the wall still hold the weight of it. There's a headache pulsing behind her eyes, a product of all her useless tears. She feels hot and hollow. Her fingers tighten around the doorknob, twisting it slowly until the mechanism clicks. Another ragged breath. Jane opens the door.

The steps to Eric's bedside are the longest Jane has ever had to walk. Up close, he seems even smaller. A multitude of tubes and wires connect him to machines that whirr and hum and beep and glow. The technology has advanced. The aesthetics of hospital care have not.

The hand that lifts from the bed trembles and shakes. The skin has a frighteningly translucent quality to it. Veins and tendons strain beneath it, their presence stronger and more real than the body that contains them. Age has stripped away the identity and form of the whole. Components have been left behind. Like pieces of a deconstructed machine, lesser than the sum of their parts. The voice is worn thin as well. There's a graceless whistle behind his words, a rasping hum in his lungs, a clumsy feebleness to his tongue. The speech is blurred, obscured, lost in a symphonic degradation of sound.

But he says her name and Jane falls to his side. She catches his frail hand in the warm, vital grasp of her own. She is silent. The words are choked in her throat, trapped behind a dry mouth and lips that have pulled themselves thin. She can feel his pulse, weak and sluggish. She can taste his sorrow, his joy. She's come back immortal, the secret to an unimaginably extended life in hand, only to witness death. "If I came back sooner," she murmurs, "I could have taught you. You could live too. We could all…"

"Jane," Eric repeats, her name accompanied by a note of humour, "This is how things are _supposed_ to be."

She looks at his face, finally. There's a smile on his lips, joy in his yet-unclouded eyes. "How can you say that?" she says in a broken whisper, "How can _this_ be right?" There's tears in her eyes again. "I was supposed to be here for you, Eric," she continues, stronger now than before. "I'm practically immortal, but what's it for if…"

The words die in her mouth, bitter husks on her tongue. Eric is shaking his head, ever so slightly. His eyes have drifted closed. "Jane," he sighs, "I knew you would be here when it counted."

"But if I'd been here sooner…"

"I'm no magician, Jane." His voice is wry now. Eyes open again, they twinkle with the echo of his patient mirth. "You really think I'm suited for magic? For some kind of science fiction fantasy of space travel through the myths I grew up with?" He pauses, smiling at her with satisfied self-awareness that blinds her. "We aren't meant to live forever, Jane. I had a good life. Don't begrudge me my work or my choices. I am who I am."

Jane searches his eyes, looking for the answers to questions she hasn't yet had time to ask. "If we aren't meant to live forever…" she begins.

He sighs again, his eyes closing. "We aren't meant to live forever. No one is. You can extend the time, stretch it out. You still won't have forever, Jane."

She is silent at this, unsure of what he has come to believe in the time she has been gone. A chuckle that could pass for a gasp escapes his pale lips. "What you have, it isn't forever. Longer than what we have now. Too long, I think you'll find. And we aren't ready for it. Not the whole human race. But we might be one day. And there's always exceptions." He opens one eye, peeks at her impishly. "You're it, Jane. The exception. One day you'll look in on things and you'll see that we are ready. But we're not there yet. Not even me."

There's a huskiness in Eric's voice now. Jane presses her hands more firmly around his. "You make it sound like I'm some sort of patron saint of humanity," she sputters. Her voice is bitter with disbelief. Harsh in her ears. Full of longing for his wisdom, for his guidance. Even now, in the end of his life she's making demands on him. She only wants to give. Why then, is she apparently only able to take?

"Not saint, Jane," he moves slightly, a shifting of sheets and wires and fluids in fragile skin. "Don't think you need to be that. Even the gods were fallible."

"Now you're saying I'm a god?" she presses, and though she means it as a joke, the taste of tears has flavoured it with hopelessness.

"I'd rather you than some old man on a cloud," he retorts, "At least I've seen you. Know you've got a good heart."

"Do I?" she begs. She wants forgiveness. She can't give it to herself.

"Jane," Eric says quietly, his other hand navigating the miles, dragging its weight in the paraphernalia of medical care, until it reaches her own. Now his hands are cradling hers. "Promise me that you will live. That you won't blame yourself for the fact that I can't. You're young. The future. You will be for a long time. Longer than most, but that's not the point. You're the one who's going to figure out our future. You'll be the one to find a way to make near-immortality work for us. What our place is going to be out there in the stars. It's where you've always wanted to be, after all."

"But I don't even know what my place is supposed to be."

"You do, Jane," he promises, "You know it. You just need to be brave enough to go there." He sighs again. "You know the best part about being old, Jane? You stop worrying about what is right and what is wrong. Good, bad, evil… it all means nothing. The thing… the only thing really… is that you live. That you explore. That you follow your heart. And you already do that. It's why I'm…" he coughs now. His body shudders like dry leaves in a winter wind. "It's why I'm so proud of you."

Jane doesn't leave Eric's side until the moment he is gone. Hours, days… it all means nothing when you have millennia to go. She's following her heart. The poor, aching thing demands she stay. But there are other demands working their way to the surface. New purposes edging into her awareness. And she whispers them to Eric in the darker parts of the night, the brightest parts of the day. And he nods and smiles with wry amusement, his hands alternating between holding and being held. In his last days, Eric Selvig goes from studying the universe to planning its future.

In all the days that follow, Jane is reminded that the future of things will not be found in good and evil, but in the complexity and ambiguity of hearts and minds. Life is chaos, and it's a far grander design than the black and white tessellations of a mere hero's journey. Even death has its place in this bigger picture.

Still, she doesn't even mouth the name of the one she wishes she could share these revelations with.


	45. Chapter 45

Jane spends twelve days at the side of Eric Selvig's hospital bed. She spends a thirteenth day watching Tony Stark sign off on various papers and forms. The fourteenth day, she lets an older, more graceful, still fiercely alert Pepper Potts guide her through a quiet but almost surprisingly large funeral. Thor attends, but Jane finds it impossible to meet his gaze. The weight of what she has lost… the broken promises, the years she has missed, the heavy knowledge of her tampered perceptions and memories… it is too much to calculate.

On her fifteenth day back on Earth, Jane finds herself swept into the prevention of a plot to disrupt the final signing and ratification of the treaties between Asgard and Earth. Emotionally, she is a million miles away as the young Stark explains the problem in excited tones. He's some sort of Iron Man version 2.0, and its entirely too confusing for Jane. She barely listens; is barely present. Her attention is devoured instead by the gaping hole in space-time that lingers in the corner of the conference room.

She recognizes it by the feeling it gives her. She's taken back, almost instantly, to the moment in which strong arms wrap around her waist and twist her through space with practiced ease. There's a sickened lump in her throat. Visser and Cramer's wormhole theory springs back to mind. Doors in the fabric of space time. The doors that… _he_ used. The doors she's never forgotten. The doors she had thought she could predict, only to find that they never appeared. Not in all her time on Asgard. The hole blinks closed.

Suddenly, there's a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. A pencil follows. There are eyes watching her now, apparently shocked by her ability to pull things from no place at all. But they hardly matter now. Calculations blossom across the page. Numbers, letters, variables filling the spaces until she sits back, chews her lower lip, eyes the nearest clock. She looks over the sprawling notations. Looks at the clock. Looks back at the corner of the conference room. Her lips murmur the countdown. The hole reopens. Jane swallows hard. The implications cut just as deep.

"Doctor Foster?" the young Stark says, a hint of confused wonder in his voice.

"I'm alright," she replies, spinning her seat. No one else in the room can see the hole. No one else understands what this means. Human eyes search her for madness or for a miracle solution to their problem… their problem with security. It's insignificant to her. She shakes her head. "You have Thor and Sif there," she says distractedly, "Everything will be fine."

"But there was a bomb threat," someone says.

Jane shakes her head. "_I'll _be there,' she mutters arrogantly, "Worst comes to worst I'll magic it away somewhere."

"Magic," someone else sputters.

"Yes," Jane replies, "Magic." There's a knife-edge in her voice. A challenge to them to protest. "It's what happens when the math gets really complicated."

"Doctor Foster?" young Stark says again, the tone of wonder lifting into something more speculative, "If you really think you can handle this concern, then I suppose we're all done here. If you would accompany me, we'll talk specifics."

Jane rises from her seat with only a hint of frustration. What she really wants is to do more calculations. To race around New York in search of wormholes. To prove her theory before she has to face the reality of the situation. The reality that she will never go back to Asgard. She won't. Not even Thor can make her.

* * *

"May I call you Jane?" young Stark asks as he holds open yet another door for her, gesturing her through. His manners, though they should feel natural after so much time spent in Asgard, feel strangely exaggerated. It's as if such gallantry is being done for her benefit alone, rather than being normal for him. It isn't an idea Jane finds appealing. She's unaware of what she might have done to earn such treatment.

"You may," Jane says awkwardly, her tongue tripping over the syllables. Half of her mind is still calculating. There should be a wormhole opening for exactly six seconds approximately ten minutes from now somewhere in the lower mezzanine, and she's aching to scout it out.

"Then please," young Stark says with a smile as smooth as silk, "Call me James."

Jane nods, "Alright then, James. Want to get down to those specifics?"

"I was thinking they might be better handled over drinks."

Jane eyes his smirk, the raised eyebrow, the gesture of his hands. "You really do take after Tony," she says finally, "I don't think I ever saw him without a scotch in his hands."

A practiced self-depreciating chuckle accompanies his reply. "I prefer gin, myself," James says with a wolfish grin.

"Still," Jane persists, catching the next door with her fingertips to avoid another door being held for her, "You really are the spitting image of him. Gestures and everything. I don't feel nearly as stupid for mistaking you for him."

James gives her a strange half-smile. "I hope that means you're primed to like me, then. It's just a little too often that I find it gets me in trouble. His enemies become my enemies, and so on." He motions her into a room outfitted in dark wood paneling and black leather couches. Rapid strides take him to the sideboard and its variety of amber and transparent liquids, "Drink, Jane?"

She ignores the offer for a moment, running fingers over the mahogany desk in the nearest corner of the room. Behind it, marred only by an executive's chair, the vista of New York City spreads. Perhaps she's surprised by how little it has really changed. Twenty-or-so years and the city looks almost exactly how she remembers it. Powered, apparently, by renewable energy, it still fails to look modern or shiny or new. Dirty streets hold dirty cars. Only the advertisements seem flashier. "Vodka," she says finally, "And a splash of something sweet. On the rocks."

"Brave," James replies, the splash of liquor on ice accompanying him, "Something that strong going to let you talk business?"

Jane smiles wanly, "I'm practically Asgardian now. Haven't you seen yet how much they can put away without feeling it?"

"Ah, yes," his dark chocolate eyes flicker at the mention of the Asgardians as he passes her the glass in his hand. "The first immortal human. That we know of, at least. What are you planning on doing with that honour?"

"Dubious honour," she corrects. There's something vaguely expectant in the air. "Travel, I suppose," she answers finally. There's missing pieces. She doesn't know what she's going to do. All she knows is that Asgard is out of the question. She wants… she won't say what she wants. Not out loud. Not even in her head. There's still the chance that if she thinks too loud he might hear. And she can't quite bear that. Too much like history now. Too much like missed opportunities.

James laughs, a surprised sound. "Travel?" he prompts, "Don't you plan to do something worthwhile with all that power? You could charge a fortune for your secrets… People would do anything for a taste of immortality."

Jane is suddenly entirely present. She looks at James with a shiver of uncertainty, "What do you mean?" There's a bitter taste on her tongue. Eric's words echo still in her head. Humanity isn't ready for what she has. She isn't sure _she's_ ready for what she has, no matter Eric's faith in her. "Are you saying I should _sell_ immortality? It doesn't work like that."

"Well," he speaks carefully now, "How does it work, then?"

"It's magic. You have to learn how to use it. If it likes you, then it… becomes part of you. It's the magic that keeps you alive, slows the aging process."

"Magic?" James says, "You really are serious, aren't you? I thought… I thought it was advanced technology, or sleight of hand with physics. Or just lies. I never understood why my father trusted…"

"You thought wrong," Jane spits icily, cutting through his drifting dialogue. "Magic… its alive. It has its own consciousness. If you accept it, you change. You can't ever go back."

James looks momentarily taken aback. He blinks slowly, "But you get to live forever. You stay young for… millennia. Isn't that worth it? A hundred times over?"

Something hardens in Jane's chest. "To live forever?" Jane's own bitter laughter rings in her ears, "No, James. It's not worth it. You live, but it just stretches out the time you have. You can't keep things in perspective when you don't fear death. You live forever… you become a tyrant. You stop caring about other people. You do… unspeakable things. You lose sight of life, of other people, of yourself. You watch everyone you love get old and die. Without you. You watch people leave. And you have forever to watch them never come back."

She thinks at first that she's speaking of the Asgardians, and Odin especially. But there's another out there who's actions can be explained this way. And then, suddenly, she's talking about herself. Her own losses. The wounds that time makes worse instead of better. The vodka in her glass sloshes against the ice. There's a tremor in her voice, her body, her thoughts.

"Oh," James whispers. He looks frighteningly young to her. Disturbingly inexperienced. Terrifyingly naïve. And just a little scared of her.

Jane stiffens. "You stop being a part of things," she says in a voice that is much softer than the one she has used before, "You become cut out of the cycles."

"Doesn't that mean that you can guide them, though?" James has set down his glass. He looks at her searchingly, with such a heartbreaking earnestness that it makes Jane close her eyes. "Doesn't being outside of them mean that you can have a say in them? That you can shape them? Make things… better?"

"That's an awful lot of responsibility," Jane murmurs. Her eyes remain closed. Her stomach feels sick. "How do you do any of that alone and know that you've made the right calls?"

"So, don't do it alone?"

Jane opens her eyes and laughs, "You really think its that simple?" She shakes her head. "Look at Asgard. They have an entire society of people who are nearly immortal. Many of them can use at least a little magic. And they still follow the lead of one guy. One guy. He's not alone, but he still makes all the big decisions."

"So he's alone."

"No, he's got tons of advisors and councils and even Frigga… he chooses to make those decisions alone."

"Right," James shrugs, "He's chosen to be alone. All you've got to do to avoid that is choose not be alone."

Jane feels her arguments die in her throat. She takes a sip of the alcohol in her glass, the sting of it barely registering on her tongue. Her tongue still feels heavy and dry. "Everyone is alone," she says softly, though the words ring hollowly in her ears.

"Right," James says drily, "Everyone's born alone and dies alone. Doesn't mean they have to spend all the time in the middle that way."

Jane sets the glass down. "That isn't always something you get to choose for yourself," she tells James. But she can't meet his eyes as she says it. There's the inkling of an idea growing in her mind. The whispering voice at the base of her skull is suggesting portals and routes that criss-cross the galaxy. It knows him. Knows her heart. It connects the dots for her that she refuses to admit. Broken hearts are beyond the comprehension of a timeless, formless entity – it isn't quite so for Jane.

There's a lump in her throat now as Jane takes the few steps back to the window. Her eyes stare unseeingly at the dancing lights. She did just say a few moments before that she might travel. Doesn't every traveler seek something? She's on the brink of a terrible leap into the dark unknown. Her breath is short in her chest. It's a decision she can't make right now. Not when the very idea is so horribly new.

A warm hand settles onto the small of Jane's back and brings her back to the present with the force of a breaking wave. She flinches forward, away from the contact, turns on her heel, and sees James Howard Stark clearly for the first time since she has been back on Earth.

"I," he looks startled, apparently taken aback by her sudden movement, "I'm sorry. Did I surprise you?" His voice is smooth, but his eyes have a sudden hurt in them.

"Yes," Jane breathes, feeling her eyes widening despite herself. She is pressed against the cold glass of the window now, as if she can't get enough space between her and the man before her.

James smiles then, gives a rueful shake of his head. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I assumed, from the stories I'd heard, that you were with Thor. But you and he have barely been in the same room for fifteen minutes since you've arrived. You appeared unattached. But am I mistaken? Is there someone else?"

Jane feels her jaw move independent of any thought. This is all strangely wrong, and she's never been good with men, and really, she knows now that its been over twenty years since she's even let herself think about romance. And, of course, the whole notion is hopelessly lost to her anyway, being all bound up in _him_. "You," she squeaks, "_Are_ _interested_ _in_ _me?"_

James moves towards her with the confident grace of a jungle cat. "Jane," he says, "You must know you are a beautiful woman."

Jane shakes her head slowly. She feels like a deer caught in headlights. Like she is at the epicenter of a car crash that she can't stop. "James," she chokes out finally, "I…" She becomes still with a suddenness that isn't quite natural. The presence at the base of her skull throbs slightly. Fury and a tinge of something oddly protective filters through to her. Jane stiffens. "You aren't interested in me, James," she says finally, firmly. "You're interested in immortality and you think that you can get to me with romance. Which is completely, perfectly ridiculous."

James pauses. He looks like he's been thrown off again, and now his eyes hold something just a bit angry. "You think I'm blind, Jane?" he says with no lack of impatience, "You are a beautiful, brilliant, bewildering woman, who happens to be privy to the secrets of the universe. Immortality might just be the least of your charms." He's taken a step closer, so that Jane can see the firm angle of his jaw line, the fire in his eyes, the strength in the arm that raises to point a finger at her. "You, Jane, are the kind of woman who only appears once in a man's life. I'd be a fool not to tell you I'm interested now. It's the only chance I'll get before you're gone. And you won't be back. Not in my lifetime."

He's a young man, and he's breathing heavily, his entire demeanor changed by the passion he feels in this compact moment. Jane feels something tug at her heart, a deep sorrow and longing. She looks only a few years older than James, but she's already too old for his impassioned pleas to carry any weight with her. If not for magic, she'd be over fifty – too old to pretend that love is the only thing that moves the stars and dictates a life. The love she needs is the sort that can weather storms and carry burdens and lend support to a friend. Something bigger and deeper than the dramatic passion James feels now.

Jane takes a step forward now, no longer the helpless maiden trapped against glass. She lifts a hand and places it gently onto James' shoulder. "James," she says softly, without a trace of condescension or reprimand in her voice, "I'm technically old enough to be your mother. And that is something I can't quite get over."

James stares at her. His gaze dips to her hand on his shoulder. When he raises his head again, his lips are painted in the faint sneer of the rejected, "What? Are you so high and mighty now that you can only love an Asgardian? A mere human just not good enough for you?"

Jane lets her hand fall from his shoulder. Lets it fly to her mouth to stifle the laughter that has bubbled up from deep within her, "You think I could love an Aesir?" Jane shakes her head, "No, no, never. They're all warriors, thick and slow and full of honour..." Jane's voice dies away along with her mirth. "No," she whispers as a sudden understanding washes over her, "I think I'm ruined for them too."

James has lost his sneer. He looks upon her with something faintly despondent. He sighs, runs a hand through his brown hair. "I'll make sure the security file makes it to your room," he says as he turns away from her. "Maybe we can just pretend this didn't happen."

"That we can do," Jane replies. She says no more. There's nothing more to say.

* * *

Jane stands by the window in the hotel room that has been provided for her. She cannot recall the name of the place, nor where it is exactly. The security file sits abandoned on the small, round table in the corner of the room. The television is on, but the sound is muted. It is the only light in the darkened room, and it sends flickering splashes of coloured illumination across the walls. There's a wormhole on the corner of the street below, and it has absorbed all of Jane's thoughts for the moment.

In twelve-point-four seconds, it will close. A quick series of calculations tells Jane that it will reopen in six hours and nine minutes. The murmur in her skull suggests that, should she choose to step through that portal, she will find herself in Tokyo, Japan. The wormhole in the conference room of Stark Tower, however, would take her to Triquen-Kha, halfway across the Local Cluster.

She is surrounded by truths. There are wormholes everywhere and she is very aware of them. She can predict them. Perfectly. But there have been no wormholes in Asgard for twenty-three years. She has blamed his absence on his ambivalent feelings towards her. She's never imagined that it might be because he has been completely and systematically bared from any entrance into Asgard, beside the obvious one that would result in his very public arrest. He had seemed a god, after all.

Jane runs shaking fingertips over the cold glass. It separates her from the few stalwart stars that insist upon shining in New York City's light-polluted sky. She's always wanted to see them up close. She's always wanted to be something more. She's always wanted. Always longed. And there's something predatory within her now. Something that snaps and snarls at Asgard and its ancient king. Something that longs for a chase.

She still remembers the scent of her quarry. The feel of his skin. She itches to touch him, to taste his lips. But there's a hesitation in her still. She couldn't bear finding him, only to find that she's been the furthest thing from his mind. She paralyzed by the fear. The humiliation she imagines at finding him completely cold and unaffected. The things she still feels for him… Jane's eyes slide closed. She could choke on the weight of them, the heavy swirl of need and want and longing. She misses her lover, her teacher, her guide. Its more than that though. She's grown, changed, learned. She's so much more than she was. She's… she'd be his equal now. She could finally walk beside him without being afraid or cowed or desperate. Could look him in the eye and challenge him without fearing his abandonment... she could simply step through the doors in space behind him.

And this is the thought that hurts the most: that he might not want that.


	46. Chapter 46

_It doesn't feel quite real… but this is the second-to-last chapter. Only one more to go… and perhaps an epilogue. I'm still undecided on that front. But, it feels like parting with a dear friend…_

* * *

The dawn of Jane's sixteenth day back on Earth was mild and faintly smoggy. Jane's hotel room window offered no view of the sunrise, but she watched the almost imperceptible lightening of the sky with the focused attention of an artist committing something beautiful to memory. The glass is smudged with the press of her fingertips. Mathematical constants are traced into the greasy smear. Jane looks no worse for wear. Sleepless nights have little effect on the practically immortal. Even sleepless fortnights mean little.

It isn't lack of sleep, then, that makes Jane's movements mechanical as she arrives at the United Nations buildings. It isn't exhaustion that makes her pliable to the searches and checks done by security, despite the fact that she is their ace in the hole, should the bomb threat prove real. It is simply the fact that she is distracted by her own personal matters. In her dream of awareness, she sits down beside a relatively casually dressed man amidst the crowd of human press, while the Asgardian delegation sits or stands calmly before them. Treaties at the ready, human and Aesir pose for the cameras, sign with archaic pens on paper (though the real paperwork has been done with digital stamps on datapads in the days before).

"It's a lot of fuss, isn't it?" the man beside her observes with a dry sarcasm in his tone.

Jane turns her head with a jerk. "Bruce?" she gasps, taking in her companion. He looks more tired. The grey at his temples has expanded to include more of his head. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes have deepened. But his gaze is firm, constant. He seems strangely well-preserved and as sharp and alert as he ever was.

"In the flesh," he quips. "How's it been, Jane? Long time no see, you know."

"Only barely," she murmurs in reply, "Odin did a bit of a mind-whammy. Had no idea it'd been over twenty years until I mistook Tony's son for Tony."

"Heard that might be the case," Bruce nods. There's a pause. A vaguely comfortable silence between them as the reporters twitter and the cameras flash. "Somehow I half-expected you to be up there with them," Bruce says finally, his tone holding something back.

Jane shakes her head, dividing her attention between the signings and Bruce. "I'm not technically Asgardian," she tells him, "And I'm not technically allowed on Earth."

Bruce turns to face her completely. "You aren't allowed on Earth even now?" he asks, with a hint of disdain in his voice. "Who the hell got to make that call?"

A bitter smile works its way across Jane's lips. "Who do you think?" she retorts. "The All-Father would hate for the balance of power to change in the universe. An immortal, magic-wielding human? Controllable alone and confined to Asgard. On Earth? It's a recipe for more humans learning magic."

Bruce nods thoughtfully. "I've heard that theory before," he admits, "Nice to hear confirmation on it. It… explains a lot."

Jane feels her jaw tighten. Grief ripples through her. "Believe me," she says quietly, "If it was my choice… Eric wouldn't have grown old alone." She sighs, twisting her hands in her lap. "Its because of Thor that I got off Asgard at all, and its those little field trips that made me brave enough to demand to come now," she swallows hard before sharing her newest little secret, "I'm not planning on going back."

"I'd think less of you if you did," Bruce says, something odd shimmering in his eyes. He shifts to watch the delegation before them as they open the floor to questions from the reporters. The cacophony of sound would drown out any attempts at conversation, so Jane sits quietly, watching Bruce with a sideways glance. There's something in the way he sits that makes her think he has more to ask. She watches his concentrated gaze as it follows Thor. He tilts his head curiously as Thor places a hand on Sif's lower back. He makes a small sound, like a cough, when Sif leans into Thor, stares up at him with a small smile on her lips.

Jane edges a bit closer to Bruce, bumps her shoulder into his with measured care. "She's pregnant," she whispers conspiratorially, "Wasn't supposed to be coming along either. Thor is absolutely terrified of anything happening to their child. It's… ridiculously sweet, though Sif will challenge to duel anyone who says so."

Bruce turns his head very suddenly, peers into her very soul, "So, you aren't with Thor."

Jane blinks. "Why would I be?" she asks, her voice lifting from its hushed tones as the reporters cleared out, "He's like a brother to me."

A smile blooms across Bruce's face, lighting up his eyes. "I knew there'd be more to the story," he says with a shake of his head. He gives a light chuckle. "Well, Jane," he says with a long exhale, "Are you at all interested in the story of how the Avengers defeated Thanos?"

Jane stares at Bruce, drinking in the calculating look behind his eyes. "How about over coffee?" she hedges, "They don't have any on Asgard, and I was a life-long caffeine addict before Odin made me go cold-turkey."

* * *

The mugs have seen better days. There's a small chip in the handle of the one that sits before Jane, and while its obvious that they were once white, the mugs are determinedly off-white now. Their insides are stained the rich brown tones of coffees past, though only the dregs of their latest offerings remain. The rich, bitter taste still rolls across Jane's tongue, and she promises herself to stock up on the substance before she leaves Earth next. It's an idle thought though, playing across her mind because the real thoughts are too weighty to admit.

"Where is he now?" she whispers. The words feel simple; they are too light, too insubstantial to convey their importance, the depth of their meaning to her.

"Haven't seen him in nearly a year now," Bruce admits, rolling the mug between his hands. "Was in a bit of state over something he'd thought he'd seen. Misinterpreted, I suppose."

Jane looks up from her mug, her eyes searching out Bruce's, "What did he think he saw? Where did he see it?"

"Something about a dragon," Bruce waves his hand, "Truth to be told, I don't remember. The whole thing seemed wrong somehow. There was… too much between you two for it to be true. I know there were rumours about you and Thor before, but to pick Thor after _him_? I just didn't see how that would work."

"It couldn't," Jane murmurs. Her gaze drops back to her mug, "He's been waiting for me to leave Asgard." The words hold a surreal reality. Hold promises she's terrified to look too hard at.

Bruce sits back in his chair, looks hard at Jane and tilts his head. "So, now you know. What are you planning on doing about it?"

Dozens of threads of ideas pull tight in Jane's mind. The whispering at the back of her mind grows more insistent. "Did he say where he was going?" she asks, meeting Bruce's eyes straight on. She's terrified, but she knows what she must do. For her sake. For his. For their collectively limited hold on sanity. For better or for worse, things were far from finished between the two of them.

"No," Bruce tells her, "I got the sense that it would be far away and for a long time, though. If you really intend on finding him, it might not be easy."

Jane smiles for the first time in the hour since Bruce began his tale, "Nothing worthwhile ever is."

* * *

There's one thing that must be done. One last thing. After the coffee and the French press and the water and the other provisions have been obtained, after she has outfitted herself with some basic gear, after she's purchased notebooks and pencils and a camera and one of the shiny new datapads that everyone's using, after that… she needs to tell Thor she isn't going back to Asgard.

Things fall together neatly, when it comes down to it. Money appears easily enough when you're friends with the outrageously wealthy. New York has no shortage of shops and specialty stores and the ability to stash things outside of space eases up the time and energy needed to move things. She even takes a few minutes to duck through a test wormhole or two. She spends five minutes in Paris. Ten in Cairo. She practices a simple air alteration spell and tests it on the moon.

She takes a moment to look down on Earth. She has no family to tie her to it now. She's outside of time, outside of its rhythms. She's lost the thread of her old life. There's nothing down there for her that she wants. Nothing she needs. All the same, there's something tight in her chest. She feels fiercely protective of the small planet, deeply fond of it. There's love in her for the world that she's outgrown. Even if it doesn't know her at all. The moment passes, but the memory of it clings to Jane long after.

It takes thirty-six hours for her to prepare completely. Thirty-six hours and five minutes for her to arrive at the suite that Thor and Sif have been sharing. She raises her hand to knock at the door, only to have it open in her face. Sif glares down at her, dark eyes full of violence and strength challenging her.

"Sif," Jane says as cheerily as she can, "I was hoping I could speak to Thor. He around?"

Sif's jaw tightens for a moment, her eyes narrow, then widen as she takes in the fact that Jane is back in her Asgardian armour. "I thought you were trying to distance yourself from Asgard," she says with suspicion in her voice.

"I'm not staying long," Jane replies. She's tired of Sif's competitive nature bristling at her when there's no reason. Thor belongs with Sif. And Jane belongs quite elsewhere. "There's places for me to go, things to do, people to see…"

"People to find?" Sif prompts. There's something suddenly distant in her eyes. Her expression has softened. A hand presses over her belly, over the barely raised bump there. Asgardian pregnancies are interminably long.

Jane looks sharply at Sif. "Please, Sif," she says slowly, "I need to speak to Thor."

Sif nods, relents, move away from the door and admits Jane to the suite. There's the impression of luxury before Jane is drawn into a small office off of the main room by the sound of Thor's echoing voice. She pauses in the doorway, watches him yell at a screen. The quiet voice on the other end sounds vaguely familiar in a far off distant way as it tells Thor that he doesn't need to yell into the microphone. Skype's still pretty reliable, even despite the buyout.

The words, of course, mean little to Thor. Still, he lowers his voice somewhat. He looks happy, flushed with pleasure. Jane places the voice. It's Barton, the Avenger known as Hawkeye. And now, from somewhere further off, a woman's voice adds something. Natasha too, then. Still a pair. A smile flashes across Jane's own face, chased away only by the end of Thor's call, and his sudden observation of her presence.

"Jane!" Thor cries, "I didn't see you. You're getting to be a shadow, you know. The only other person who could ever sneak up on me…"

"Was Loki," Jane finishes for him. "But I'm not him. You can't keep using me to fill the hole where he once was, you know." She speaks more frankly now than she has before. But she has no fear of hurting Thor now. She has held his life in her hands, pushed and shoved his life force back into the shell of his body. He's strong, much stronger than his sometimes-childish demeanor would suggest. He's smarter than he lets on, too. And he has Sif to put him back together after this.

Thor looks at her with surprise. "I…" he pauses, struggling to find the words, "I didn't know you felt that way, Jane." His gaze is kind and concerned. He's choosing his words carefully now, "When we return to Asgard, I will…"

"You won't need to do anything," Jane meets his eyes levelly, "Because I won't be going with you."

She watches Thor as he stiffens. "Jane," he says, only a hint of pleading in his tone, "You know you cannot stay here. That you shouldn't have come here at all. The All-Father's word is final…"

"And not applicable to me," Jane finishes. "I'm not his subject. I refuse to be. He's meddled with my memories, trapped me, attempted to control me, and you know that these things aren't limited to me. They're used against all Asgardians, and his own family in particular."

"Jane," Thor says, though there's pain in his eyes and in his voice, "I cannot let you stay."

"I don't intend to."

There is a long moment where Thor and Jane stand on opposite sides of the room, and opposite sides of the fight. Blue eyes challenge, threaten, and rage against too-calm caramel.

"Let her go." Jane and Thor turn in perfect sync as Sif enters the doorway of the office. She stands tall and firm and strong. "Let her go, Thor," she repeats, "She's only following her heart."

"Hearts don't mean anything to…"

"To Odin, yes," Sif interrupts, "But he is only the current king of Asgard. What would the future king do? What would you have Jane do? Return to Asgard, and Odin's delicate cage? What for? It's all only to punish Loki. To push him into surrendering. And he won't do that. Let her go to him. I'll never understand it, but it's the only thing she's wanted in twenty-three years."

Sif's words are bitter, but rich in the manner of coffee and dark chocolate. They beg questions of morality, of truth, of rightness, of futures that have not really been divined. And they hit Thor directly, the blunt words handled and applied as deftly as Sif could manage with a blade. There is something fierce and true about her, and for a moment, Jane imagines she sees something in her warrior's stance. Something more. Something queenly. It reassures her on a level she hadn't realized was concerned.

Thor turns from them. His back is broad, the red cape he wears falls heavily across his shoulders, hangs with an aura of curtailed greatness. For a moment, Jane thinks she sees a child. She blinks, and it is an old king. This is a choice that will have consequences that filter across time and space, and for the first time, Jane realizes this. Realizes that she has become a player on a stage far greater than any she has imagined. Jane Foster, unrecognized and often-ridiculed astrophysicist, has a place in the cosmos far greater than any other simple human has had yet. The responsibility chokes her, keeps her from adding any word with which to sway him.

"Go," Thor says finally, quietly, "Go now, go fast, go far." He doesn't turn to face her. "Whatever the consequences, this cannot continue. So go."

Jane swallows hard. She hasn't imagined their goodbye would be like this. He really is like a brother to her, and to part on these terms… "Thor," she whispers, pleading with him to turn to her, to give her one last bright smile.

"Go, Jane," he urges, his back still turned. "Before Heimdall must inform the All-Father and we're all recalled. It would be all for nothing then."

Jane licks her dry lips, shifts her gaze to Sif. "I should go," she says numbly.

Sif smiles a brittle smile, her eyes gleam in the artificial lighting. "I'll walk you out," she agrees. There's a hand on her shoulder then, as Sif steers her out of the suite. Then there is a soft bundle thrust into her hands. Sif stares down at her, her fierce, regal features schooled into a sharp glare, "You must go as quickly as you can, as far as you can, to places where even Heimdall cannot track you." With a nervous glance back at the office, Sif pushes the bundle tighter into Jane's arms, "Frigga said… Frigga said you would want this. That it would serve a purpose. She also says to tell him that she loves him still." There's a hint of a snarl on Sif's lips, "That she's still waiting for him to put his brother on the throne."

"Sif," Jane whispers in shock, a hundred questions flitting across her mind.

"Go, Jane!" Sif growls, shoving Jane out of the door. "Go quickly!"

* * *

Jane may not have a great fondness for Sif, but she does trust the woman, so when she says to go quickly, Jane goes quick. She takes the wormhole on the corner to Tokyo. There's a wormhole to a planet who's name gets whispered into the back of her skull six blocks from where she pops out. The name is unpronounceable without a bioluminescent array, but Jane goes anyway, air purification and protective bubble spells in place. She spends a little over an hour bobbing on pink-toned waves in her bubble of breathable air before she calculates the next closest wormhole and steers herself towards it. She slips through it onto an asteroid overlooking a binary star system in the Omega Centauri star cluster. She stares at the view for ten solid minutes before she finds the will to turn away from it to focus on the numbers. She doesn't have far to go for the next one. Just an eight hour wait.

Thirteen more jumps, Jane figures her trail has become convoluted enough to evade Heimdall for a little while at least. She reaches into her pocket outside of space and pulls out the soft bundle Sif had so hurriedly pushed into her arms. Rough twine unknots, plain fabric in a deep brown unwraps, and Jane finds herself holding a cloak in the deepest green. It is made of fabric that feels heavy one moment, and light the next. Several pockets in the inside lining lead to enchanted pockets in space time. The fabric itself is interwoven with a protection enchantment. Jane stares down at it, pulls it close into her arms, and feeling only slightly self-conscious on the empty rock she sits on in space, she leans into the fabric and smells deeply of it.

The scent of magic hits her first, then the undertones of leather and a winter's day. She stifles the quite sob in the fabric itself. She's never let herself cry, not since the first day, for the lack of him. She cries now. She cries until she's empty of everything but resolve. And then, she laughs. She shifts the cloak until it is wrapped around her. It has a hood, which, she supposes, is fitting for a sorcerer traveler, even if its different from any style she's seen him wear. She sends a silent thank you out into the stars to Frigga. And then, with the suddenness of a flash of light, she is gone. Her own path obscured amongst the stars.


	47. Chapter 47

The last rays of sunlight filter down upon the lake. It is a dying star up there, glowing huge and red on the horizon. Loki watches its reflection on the water's surface, musing on the nature of time and the perception of its passing. The star has lived far longer than he, might still live far longer. Even in its final, twilight years, this dying thing could outlive him, the apparently immortal. The scale of it all – time, space, the universe – still defies comprehension. It fills him with a deep, empty loneliness.

Where it begins is hard to trace, but the feeling is heavy in his body. It sits in his chest, radiates down his arms, aches in his fingers as they tighten painfully into fists. But he's no longer angry. He suspects that he's worn out his share of emotions for this century. Or perhaps the next several. His life has spanned millennia, but he's done more living in the past few decades than in all that came before. He has played so many roles, changed so many times over.

He's so very, terribly tired.

The wormhole opens. He steps through. There's no rest for the weary or the wicked, and he has been both in his time.

* * *

There is something to be said for having friends, Loki accedes. It's taken him the better part of three millennia to finally come fully to this conclusion, so he's still hesitant about the whole idea. There is also something maddening about the fact that most species live for just a handful of centuries (or worse, less than a single one). It means he will lose these friends. He'll be forced to find _new_ ones. It is exceedingly inefficient. It is the sort of thing that leads to one offering to teach magic. _Again. _(A terrible idea considering how that went last time. No. He won't think her name. He won't think of _her_.)

To his surprise, Yantreth turns down the offer. The sly Kilkethian draws his green-tinged lips back to expose his needle-like teeth in that horrendous grimace of his and laughs. "I'm no magician, my friend," he claims, "And what would a Kilkethian want with half of eternity? I'd have to put off having children, or else all the work would be for nothing."

Loki glares at Yantreth, his lips quirked in displeasure. "You could always change the rules of ascension," he suggests, annoyance colouring his tone.

"You still are so stuck in those frightful Asgardian ways," Yantreth insists, "Our ways work for us. What use is an ancient, ex-king? Such a state would only end with a tyrant ruling, and his bitter children all dead. Better to let nature take its course."

"Then put off having children," Loki replies flatly. He knows he's lost this one. Kilkethians have a stubbornness that rivals his own.

Yantreth raises an eye ridge, sizes Loki up with his bright yellow eyes. "Loki," he says, "That simply won't do. Have you not _seen_ my new wife?"

"Your queen, you mean," a female voice chuckles from a doorway. Illana wears a simple, cream-coloured shift that only barely conceals the unfamiliar lines and curves that Kilkethians deem attractive. She leans against the softly glowing, living wood of the doorway. Her gaze is gentle upon her husband, though it sharpens when she glances to Loki. "He is so busy congratulating himself on securing a beautiful wife," she waves her seven-fingered hand through the air dismissively, "He forgets that he really chose me so I would do all his thinking and ruling for him."

The smirk flits across Loki's lips unwittingly. Yantreth looks between them, a trace of arrogant rage crossing his expression, making it look momentarily vicious, monstrous. It passes. It only takes a moment for empaths to absorb the emotional input that swirls around living beings. Satisfied that the dominant emotion in the room is fondness for his own self, Yantreth settles back into his chair. Loki watches as Illana takes the few steps to her mate's side, settles onto the arm of his chair, and smoothes her thin lips across his brow. Having sensed his momentary displeasure, she is willing to soothe him. The entire scene bites at buried emotions. Loki turns his head away, swings still-booted legs onto the table carved up and out of the floor. Living still, like all things in a Kilkethian home (or palace, as it may be).

"Rude," Illana admonishes, forcing Loki to look back at his hosts. She sits directly upon Yantreth's lap now, evidently pulled there. Her tone is judging, though her expression is not. It is oddly gentle, even forgiving. He hates pity still.

"God," he replies, jabbing a pointed finger into his own chest.

Illana and Yantreth laugh as one. "My friend," Yantreth says, "Even you do not believe that still."

Loki feels his frown tighten.

Illana sighs. "My lord," she says quietly, pressing a kiss to Yantreth's dangerous mouth with her own, "I believe you should be kind to our guest. For we know what he does not. And we know that he is in low spirits only because he is lonely himself."

Yantreth smiles knowingly at Illana, glances at Loki for a short moment with a calculating look in his eyes. "Not our place to tell him, is it, my love?" Illana laughs.

Loki glares at the pair, annoyed by their behaviour. He's getting sick of the newly weds. It could easily be time to move on. Something does need to be done about those brown dwarfs first, however. Making new friends isn't done so easily after all.

* * *

There is a certain freedom in thumbing one's nose at the established order. Now, when Loki arrives anywhere new, he introduces himself as Loki. No planet, no affiliations, no last name. He is himself and nothing more. Nothing less either, of course. It is a strange thing, to make a name for oneself without relying on anyone or anything from one's own past. To start new. To be something one has dreamed of being. To ignore any old constraints. He doesn't rage against the order of things. He also makes no attempt to conform. He is something other. Something new in the universe. Something undefined.

There are cultures that choose to see him as a god; others who interpret him as a herald of things to come; others still that simply put up with his presence, ignoring him whenever possible. He tolerates it all with an easy smirk. There's a whisper within him that sends him where things need change, direction, or aid. The source of the whisper makes him rather self-sufficient. He no longer requires the treatment or regard demanded of a king or prince. He's a beggar, a vagabond, occasionally a thief. It's ironic that it all suits him better. The plurality of roles fits him like a glove. The cultures that regard him as a god simply make him smile. He winks at the suspicious and disbelieving. Does nothing to dissuade them. He'd rather they come at the truth themselves than believe a lie.

He's come so far.

_She_ would be proud. He hopes like hell that she's happy.

* * *

Being nothing but Loki means that he can set his own agenda. And if that means stepping into the middle of a four-century-long war, then that's just fine and no one is really in any position to tell him otherwise. The odd thing about the Franir-Skillen-Trevelen war, of course, is that the Skillen are a technologically-backwards race incapable of leaving the surface of their swamp-like planet. Their role in the war is simply as pawns in the ground-based battles between the Franir and the Trevelen – both races being, of course, reluctant to have any ground-based battles on their own home worlds. Which is exactly why Loki has appointed himself advisor, counsel, and diplomat for the Franir. Someone should care about them anyway.

This particular round of talks is being held on a Trevelen Emmissary ship. Curtained in purple and fuchsia (the Trevelen have a strange sort of colour blindness), the ship has been retrofitted with staterooms and grand halls and the odd, circular rooms favoured by the Trevelen for political talks. Side halls cut through the ship, leading to areas blocked off and reserved for ship engineers and custodial staff, keeping most of the ship workings away from prying eyes. In fact, one could easily enough pretend that one was in an actual palace, rather than a ship drifting lazily through demilitarized space.

It is a movement in one of these side halls that catches his eye. It is well known that neither the Franir nor the Trevelen have any cool-toned colours in their visual spectrum, so the splash of vibrant green forces him to come to a hard stop. Because the only splash of green on this ship is himself. He peers harder into the shadowed hallway, watches the green bit of movement bob to its feet. Which is increasingly strange, since neither the Franir nor the Trevelen are even vaguely humanoid.

What is most strange, however, is the familiarity Loki has with that particular splash of green. It is one of his own traveling cloaks. A bit small, suggesting it's from his first travels around his home galaxy. Woven by his mother's own hands. Adopted mother's hands. Frigga's hands. Hands that loved him, in any case. Loved him enough to weave in a protection spell and extra-dimensional pockets. Loved him enough to recover the cloak after his travel brought him home again, several inches taller and in need of a new one. How then, did this strange, shadowed creature come into possession of it?

Loki steps closer. He can hear now that the humanoid creature is whispering softly. "Come on, please? Unlock the stupid door. It's got one of those triplicate lock spells. We'll do fireworks on Netten Six for the kids if you do it." There's a pause, as if some other voice is replying. "Honestly!" the creature explodes, dropping its tone almost immediately after, "If I could pick it I would. It's a bit beyond the old hairpin in the lock technique and I don't use bobby pins anyway." The female (for Loki knows this voice) growls faintly, "What do you think this is? Nancy Drew?"

His mouth has gone dry. He thinks his limbs have gone numb. He certainly can't feel his fingers. There's a wave of disbelief washing over him, choking him. He feels like he's been struck dumb and blind and entirely senseless. Except maybe for the splash of emerald green in the form of a human woman, who's back is turned to him still. But he must make some sound. Perhaps an inelegant cough or stuttered, just-too-loud breath, because the figure raises a hand from the cloak in his direction, a motion suggesting stillness and quiet. There's a click from the door.

The figure makes a happy sound deep in her throat. She places a hand on the lever-like handle and presses down upon it. The door swings open on silent hinges and she takes a step or two into the room. There's the pause of a moment, then two steps back. "Aren't you coming?" she asks, caramel eyes staring up into his. Her expression is challenging. There is something fierce and bright and oddly triumphant in her eyes. The angle of her chin is soft, but the set of her jaw is as stubborn as a mule. Brown curls dance below the green fabric of the cloak's hood, escaping in soft tendrils that practically beg to be touched. She blinks. Long, black lashes flutter across pale skin. There's a hint of rose in her cheeks. She licks her lips in what can't be nervousness; she's too calm, too confident to feel this the way he's feeling this. "I never thought you'd turn down the chance at mischief," she says quietly, her eyes turning down from his own.

It's like being punched in the stomach, the loss of those caramel eyes gazing into his own, and he knows that he will do anything to keep her in his sights. He doesn't know _why_ she is here, on the far edge of the galaxy humans named Cygnus A and Trevelens named "Home" (it loses something in translation), but he _doesn't care. _She's here, standing in front of him, offering mischief while wearing one of his childhood cloaks. He's not sure what to think. He's too scared to hope. His fingers are numb. They twitch.

"Lead the way, Doctor Foster," he says finally. The words sound too easy. They sound bored. They carry the suggestion of sarcasm. They don't sound like they've been ripped from a leaden tongue that longs to call her beloved and say that he's been half-dead without her.

But she looks up at him, rewards him with those bright, brilliant eyes and the quirk of her lips into something that looks oddly like a smirk. He thinks he likes it. "Good," she says, stepping away from him and into the room. The hood falls back as she moves with light footsteps into the room. Her head turns rapidly, catching sight of half a dozen alarm switches and not a few traps. She lifts a hand, whispers something under her breath. The systems disarm. The traps spring upon themselves, or sputter into nothing. There's a whisper in his head. Powerful, familiar magic, the magic that lives inside him tells him.

It strikes him quite suddenly that the conversation she's had by the door has been with something whispering answers directly into her mind. Something she makes deals with, something she travels with. His head spins with the conclusions that can be drawn. _Why didn't you tell me?_ he demands of the voice in his skull. The magic slithers and dances on the edge of his nervous system. Nothing to tell. But there is something to tell. The fact that he's not unique. The fact that he's not alone in this terrible, intimate knowledge of the other, living force that inhabits the universe and the corners of his own soul. That he shares the burden with the one creature he's been trying so desperately hard to live without.

He watches mutely as Jane moves toward a second door. This one she opens with a flick of her wrist and a press of her palm. "See?" she mutters, "Not so hard when you cooperate." She snorts in the quiet, amused way that he dimly remembers from evenings spent in frustrated magic lessons. It shouldn't be endearing.

"Not that I argue with break-and-enter," he hears himself drawl, "But what exactly _are_ you doing?"

Jane turns her head to flash him a smile that is so dizzying he has to blink against the force of it. "As the living incarnation of the Skillen goddess, Jannen," she explains with a grin, "I'm recovering their most sacred cultural artifact."

"The goddess Jannen?" he prompts.

"Yup," Jane chirps, "Goddess of justice and finding things." She doesn't turn to address him, instead focusing on the room beyond the door. She sucks in a frustrated breath before casting several rather intricate spells upon the surveillance system and a system of alarm lasers. "I've been labeled a goddess on three separate worlds now, you know," she adds suddenly. She flashes him another of those painful smiles, "I'm slowly catching up."

He stares at her long after she's turned away from him again. Her eyes trace the details of the room. His eyes trace her back. Trace her form. Trace the shape of her words in the air. He looks to the swirl of magic around her, but everything is cloaked. Spells upon spells woven in around herself. Spells of unseeing. He knows one of those well. She's blocked herself from Heimdall's sight. There's too much to hope for. It's getting hard to breath.

"The artifact that is being bargained for at these talks?" he asks with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Talks," Jane scoffs, "Politics are slow. Sometimes you need direct action to get things done." Her smile is brilliant as she winks at him, "Justice has wings, you know. Gotta get things done in a timely manner. Not all races have forever." She is momentarily distracted by something, deals with it, picks the conversation back up. "Besides," she says, "I never thought I'd see you arguing in favour of the lawful solution."

"I've never denied the usefulness of the diplomatic process," he replies drily. "And I usually get results."

"Ha!" Jane exclaims, apparently heedless of his presence. She stands before a pedestal, illuminated by a spotlight shaded in golden yellow. The figure is lumpy and malformed, a poor arts and crafts project, but the Skillen do lack hands, so it is entirely possible that it may be the pinnacle of their artistic achievement. He watches her rummage through an extra-dimensional pocket, withdraw a small sack of what appears to be sand. She's wearing a ridiculously adorable smile, looks towards him with eyes that shine with mirth. "I've always wanted to do this," she admits. In a single, smooth movement, Jane swipes the sculpture and replaces it with the sack. "Oh, Indy," she grins, "I am _so_ in your league now."

The whine of the security alarm begins just a moment after. Jane laughs. "Oh," she says, as indecipherable as she has been yet, "That is so right on cue." She flits the few steps to his side. "This is the part where we run, okay?"

He looks down at her, knows that he has given her as little as she has given him. "Okay," he says quietly, the Midgardian slang falling easily from his lips. She blinks, amusement playing across her lips. But she doesn't know how much time he has spent on Midgard, after her. How easy it all is now. How much closer it makes him feel to her.

He curses the numb feeling in his fingers when she very suddenly catches his hand in her own.

Then they are running. She begins the movement, but his legs are so much longer than hers. What for him is an easy lope is for her a frantic dash. Irrelevant when the Trevelen security appears, fluttering down the hall on their strangely ill-proportioned wings. They're still faster than Jane's feet can move. So it's only logical that he bend ever so slightly and scoop her into his arms. It isn't like he'll get tired carrying her weight, even if the Asgardian-style armour she wears adds a few pounds. The green cloak wraps around her. She laughs and throws her arms around his neck. The leather of her armour rubs against the leather of his. There's a laugh bubbling up in his chest as well.

"To the right," she cries suddenly, "Through the doors. In the corner of the Franir emissary's stateroom"

"Straight to Gengax Five," he muses.

"I still haven't seen the giant amoeba races," she breathes against his neck.

There's a devilish smile on his lips. His hands are far from numb. There's a warm, laughingly joyful bundle of Jane wearing his cloak in his arms. Her mouth is only a breath away from his skin. Her arms are wrapped around his neck, hands fanned across his shoulders. His eyes sparkle with mischief as he leans down to whisper into her ear, "I suppose I'll have to show you them then."

"I can't think of anything I'd like more," she murmurs back, her breath a whisper across his skin.

"Nothing?" he mutters darkly, one foot through the wormhole only they can see.

"Maybe a few things," she promises, one hand sliding from his shoulder to trace the angle of his jaw.

The pair of thieves vanish from the Trevelen Ship. Three weeks later the Skillen celebrate the return of their cherished artifact. And vote a new god into their pantheon. It's not that big an honour. The Skillen have nearly six hundred gods.

* * *

It isn't perfect. They have to relearn who each other is. But they have time. Plenty of time.

* * *

_Author's Note: There **will** be an epilogue. _


	48. Chapter 48

_Alright, this is it. Thank you all so much for coming along with me on the journey that has been this story. I said at the beginning it could be an epic... and it actually became even bigger than I had originally dreamed. Thank you all so much for your support, your kind comments, and your favourites and follows. You have all been a part of this story's creation. _

* * *

Siglax is a very simple creature. His life has been, thus far, defined by the needs that pull his body through the leafy undergrowth of his home. The need to eat propels his body through the thick, dark mud that sucks at his sleek, fleshy sides. The need to sleep sends him deep into the thickets. The need to wander sent him slipping from his mother's side pouch. The need for company occasionally draws him to the gatherings of his kind under the bright, full moon.

These gatherings are the events of Siglax's life, punctuating what would otherwise be an existence too lacking in meaning for a species that borders on sentience. The gatherings are a celebration, a time and place of exchange. They sing stories to each other in their haunting, lilting, lonely voices about the sights they have seen and the places they have been. Most are simple tales of where to find the best things to eat, the sweetest waters to drink, the loveliest flowers to smell. Others are of stranger things. These are the stories of the fires in the sky, the falling lights, the dancing heavens. Of them all, Siglax has the best, and he is always asked to tell it. It has become known, quite eloquently, as "The Last Story of the Night."

It begins, Siglax hums, in the moonlit waters of the river Trule. There is a terrible splash, as if the water could never be still again. Then a sound so rough and jagged that it almost burns in his ears. The water is disturbed, again and again, by a pair of beings so strange that Siglax is forced to extend his blinking eye stalks out of his resting place in the ticket. The creatures are split apart into branches like the trees, wobbling and teetering about in the shallow water on twin stalks rather than sliding along on their bellies in one good solid piece like a sensible creature. Their eyes are small and set into their heads, but are alight with a joy that even Siglax can relate to. Whatever they are, and wherever they have come from, they are filled with a carefree happiness that warms and winds its way through the whole jungle. The small slits that must pass for their mouths open and shut, emitting more of the strange, jagged sounds. Expressions of happiness, though they lack the music of Siglax's own kind.

By now, the circle of Siglax's companions has pulled closer to him. Their low hums of curiosity, wonderment, and excitement support the solo of the story. Siglax brightens, his voices deepens ever so slightly. He tells how the pair reach their branches out towards each other, gather each other in close. How their mouth-sounds fall soft and gentle now. How they press their mouths close, how they bow and bend into each other so that the strange moss that covers their heads touches. Siglax sings his most secret words: the strange creatures are filled with a love so deep that it holds shadows and dark and light and secrets told and then once more forgotten. He tells how the creatures lingered for perhaps only a moment, filling the jungle with feeling and the river with sound and life, then disappeared.

The hum of the circle falls into a sigh. They don't know what these creatures may have been, but their story fills them with a wonderful sensation. They are not alone in the jungle under the darkened sky. They share it instead with creatures strange and fantastic. Creatures filled with joy and love. Creatures that give them hope in the driest, coldest, brightest times of the year. Hope that the warmth of the dark season will return. Hope that the jungle will fill once more with its thick mud and fragrant flowers. Hope that the river will swell and sing again, and perhaps, be moved again by the strange creatures that do not sing their joy, but share it somehow anyway.

* * *

Kril't Ibreza is seven seasons old when she first meets the aliens her father announces as Lord and Lady of Chaos. She turns her head to stare at them with inquisitive yellow eyes as she gnaws on a toy. The tips of her needle-like teeth are beginning to grow in, and the pain is distracting to say the least. But she never forgets the way they look at each other. Sly green eyes meet clever brown, and they share a smile so secret that she wishes she could ask them what they find so amusing. But Kilkethians do not learn to speak until after their teeth have grown in. They cannot make the sounds of their language without them. So she watches in silence and waits.

It is years later that Ibreza realizes that Loki and Jane are silently laughing at them. Ibreza, though she is often accused of being entirely unfeeling herself, is a prodigy at receiving and interpreting the emotions of others. Which is, perhaps, the only reason she doesn't leap to her feet and throw the platter of roasted Pik'lok fish directly into their smirking faces. Because she can feel not just their amusement at the sometimes overtly descriptive titles her father concocts for them, but also the deep love they have for him. They are mocking creatures, mocking even each other. It is no measure of their love or respect. They speak before they think. They feel before they process. They are as changeable and as temperamental as the wind.

But their love for each other seems to know no boundaries or borders. There's no limit to the depth of that feeling. Every time they visit, Ibreza looks upon them, waiting for them to show signs of boredom or neglect or remorse or resentment, or any of those painful edges and endings of love. They never do. They curl around each other, leaning into each others space, catching and finishing the threads of each others ideas.

After three failed love affairs and her eight-sixth season of life, Ibreza wonders if perhaps it is simply an act. The great, perfect lie spun by the universe's greatest liar and his mistress. The lie that love can be real and deep and true for all of eternity. They are, after all, collectively known as the rulers of chaos, the destroyers of established orders, the judgment of the ancient gods. They are a king and a queen, though they have no realm, no world, no subjects to call their own. They are deeply suspect in Ibreza's calculating eyes.

When they return in the midst of Ibreza's ninety-third season of life, she realizes that she cannot hold her own lack of love against them. They are deeply flawed, horribly broken creatures. They are, in fact, the only members of their kind. And they are, in fact, of one kind. Though she suspects that the Lady Jane is entirely unaware of the bronze and gold in her once simply-brown hair, or of the wicked sharpness of her once-flat and straight teeth. They are too much of each other. They have nothing else. It's hard for Ibreza to hold that against them, especially after the misplaced comment of Lady Jane's that suggests that there is no reason why a Queen should need a king to rule for her. Especially after the Lord Loki rolls his eyes, bumps his lady's shoulder, then stills and regards her with strange, sly, green-eyed gaze. He winks at her. Only once, the smirk back on his lips.

The Lord and Lady of Chaos both attest at the Tribune of Succession, just as they did at her father's and his father's before him. Ibreza gives them a needle-toothed smile. She suspects that they will have a hand in the royal succession of Kilketh Prime for a very long time. She also suspects that they had never planned to have such an influence upon it. But as the first female ruler of the Kilkethians, Ibreza does just fine. She also finally admits that one need not be ruler of a single realm or people. After all, Loki and Jane are rulers of hearts and minds and ideas; things much bigger and longer-lasting than worlds or people.

* * *

The dark king sits in his blackened castle. It has grown hollow with the lack of things. Lack of sunlight, lack of feeling, lack of people in its halls. It has grown still and cold, where once it was filled with light and life. All the living things within it have long since been chased or drawn away for fear of being choked out. The very air has grown stale and sour. It holds no music, no laughter, no stories or songs. The castle sits still and sorrowful, holding vigil over a still and sorrowful realm.

The dark king sits still. He has no movement left within him. There is no laughter left in his lungs, no light in his eyes, no love in his heart. He has given everything for what he had long ago convinced himself of as right. Now he sits, alone and lonely, and reconsiders the wisdom in his own actions. It is entirely possible, now that he has the time and the quiet and the consequences to consider, that he may, perhaps, have made mistakes.

There is a twitch in his left index finger. It is a summoning motion, though there are none who will answer those summons left. Even his familiars, bound up into his own existence through bonds of blood and magic, have long ago ceased to answer. He knows where they are. Knows and cannot act. He is bound within his own realm. They cannot enter, and he cannot leave. The All-Father besieged in the dying coals of the golden realm that once was Asgard.

There is a shadow in the corner that has caught his attention, however. He finally acknowledges that he has grown weak. Or perhaps he is merely weary of this state of siege. Whatever the case, the shadow is dark and deep and sings a song of sorrow and lost potential that wraps around his imagination.

He loses himself in the slipstream of remembered time. For a moment, he is holding the hands of his sons in a golden hall, telling stories and holding their love and respect in the palms of his strong hands. His hands are now so empty, so frail. They are nothing more than the spotted, worn carcasses of alien creatures. He looks at them, and they are not his. They have done things he cannot bear to admit, not even to himself. He dives again into memory, into the smashed crystal of a broken and battleworn realm. His hands, once again strong and full, hold a tiny child within them. His son, who is not his son, who he thought would be safer at his side. Safer for who, he wonders now. And safer how?

"Hello, Father," the son who is not his son says. His words are quiet, but sound loud in this empty space that has heard no voices for over a century now. Even Frigga has long ago left his side. Love cannot last forever. Some burdens are just too much to bear.

"I thought," he begins, so slowly. The words pull themselves from deep within him, tainted by the dark shadows that lie still within empty earth, "That I would never hear you say such a thing once more."

The shape within the shadow in the corner slips closer. "You are still the All-Father," the shape says, his tone as flippant as it ever was. There was no teaching this one about honour or the value of being straight-forward. "Aren't you?" he mocks.

Odin lifts his head, regards the son who is not his son with his single good eye. Loki, for even Odin knows that the creature he raised as his own has long denied his own parenthood. The arrogant runt of a frost giant has set himself atop his own pantheon. No last name required for forces of the universe.

"There's no pantheon," he says, his tone dry. Odin lets something between a snort and cough escape him. He isn't certain if Loki can now read minds, or if the silence has left him so addled that he has taken to thinking aloud…

"You are," he says, answering the question before the idea has even finished forming. "You are, in fact, the most pathetic being left in this universe." There's a twitch of something in the end of that statement. The bitterness dies before it has even truly begun. Replaced with… pity, perhaps. Which is rich, indeed. Loki, once incapable of escaping the boundaries of his own hurt, capable now of pity for the father he denies.

Odin's single eye waters. The figure near him blurs into a smudge of emerald and starlight. The first bright thing in this place in what must be a small eon. The smudge shrugs, "Yes, I feel pity for you," it acknowledges, "What else is there left to feel?"

"Why have you come?" Odin demands. There is still the ghost of a command about his words, and for this he is grateful. He is eternal; a force of good within the universe; a thing without end. He won't have such truth be denied.

"Nothing lasts forever," Loki says with a lilt in his tone that suggests the memory of his laughing smirk. "And you're wrong, in any case. You long ago ceased to be about anything good. You were a force of order. Order imposed upon the chaos."

There is nothing wrong with order…

"But there is," he hisses, cutting off the thought, or the words, whatever it is they are. "Because _life _is chaos. Stifle that and what have you left but death?"

Odin never expected to hear truth from the poison lips of Loki.

"You know why I am here."

Odin shifts now, the titanic movement of a mountain shaking. There is still so much rage within him, so much anger, so much pride. This is not the end.

"This is the end."

But why this son who is not his son? Why should Asgard fall into the hands of this one? This is not, could never be…

"You really believe I still want this sad little realm?" His voice is almost warm now. He is mocking him still, but with the kindness afforded to children or animals. "There is nothing here for me."

"Then why are you here?" he demands again, anger flavouring the words he knows he says. He can hear them echo against the hollow stone walls of the tower.

"Because I am the killer of kings," Loki says quietly, "I am the slayer of old gods. I am the end of things. _You _were the one who gave me _Ragnarok_."

"Then this is the end…"

"Your end. The end of your universe," the bitter note is back, familiar as an old friend. "You gave me destruction as my birthright. I did not have to do it your way."

The ancient mouth is dry as dust. He cannot swallow against the sudden fear. The All Father has not felt fear in such a long time. Even a century of this lonely siege, even the loss of his closest allies, even the slow disintegration of his golden Realm Eternal, have not brought him fear. But here, alone in the dark with his son who was never (could never be) his son, he faces death. He faces the end of things as he knows them. There is nothing to come after. There is no heaven for a fallen god.

Perhaps the dagger between his ribs is a relief, for there is a sudden clarity to the world that he has been lacking for most of the past millennia. He can see now, that Loki's eyes hover above him, luminous green in a face so pale it may just be tinged blue. A nervous tongue licks chapped lips, and Odin can see the razor fangs in his mouth. Light, from who knows where catches the raven feather quality of his hair, blues and blacks almost glowing. But what forces the breathe to catch in Odin's throat is the sight of wetness upon Loki's cheeks. Those wickedly emerald eyes glow with the tears he sheds. So no one cries for the loss of the All Father but one who slays him.

Odin closes his one good eye. Perhaps this is a good death, after all. Perhaps the empty eternity of nonexistence is absolution. Perhaps this is the better way.

* * *

Loki slips back through the doorway between worlds. He steps out into the sunlight of a world that he does not know the name of, does not care to know the name of. This is over. The cycle continues, the wheel spins on. He sheaths the dagger that still drips with sluggish, blackened blood. He won't bother to clean it now. It will discarded. There are no old kings left for him. His part in this has been played through. There are other roles for him to take on now. Things must change for them to grow.

His fingers tighten for a moment around the cold metal of the spear. For the briefest instant, power flows between it and him. There is the faintest memory of a span of days in which he ruled the Realm Eternal, and the power of Gungnir was his. He could take the throne, could rule the universe in this most secret of ways. The fatherless becomes the father…

Emerald eyes scan the gathered crowd, snag, and get lost in the warm caramel that drinks him in with a love he doesn't deserve. His body knows where he belongs, even if his head can get confused. The fingers that curl around the spear loosen, his arm relaxes, the muscles move and tendons pull. The spear flies sideways through the air, fierce tip directed at the sky. His golden brother, who isn't his brother, but _is_ after all, catches it with wide eyes. Loki doesn't bother to watch, his now free hands have wound their way around Jane's waist, pulled her close to him. His lips catch hers, kiss her until she is breathless.

"Hey, you," she whispers when he finally pulls away. There are amber lights in her eyes that dance with the joy of having everything she loves safe and close. He runs a hand through the soft curls of her hair. She has changed from what she once was, but he can't find any fault in it. She is someone meant solely for him. And that is far more precious than being a king.

"It is done, then?" Thor calls, his eyes jumping between the spear in his hands and the embrace between the two aliens he counts among his dearest friends and family.

"It's done," Loki replies, his eyes never leaving Jane's. These things take too long. He has missed more than he would have wished. He doesn't intend to miss a single thing more.

"Just like that?" Sif barks, her voice tense and taunt, as if she still fears Loki's betrayal after this, three centuries of fighting to put Thor onto Asgard's throne.

"Just like that," Loki smirks back, his eyes finally sliding sideways to regard the royal family. "It's a bit more responsibility than I'm looking for, you know. And, really," he turns his head to recapture Jane's gaze, "It's a bit of a fixer-upper," Jane smiles in response to his words, borrowed from the people she has outgrown, but never stopped loving. "We have more pressing concerns," Loki continues, winking at Jane and then smirking at Thor, "Don't you think?"

Thor shakes his golden head, hangs Mjolnir at his belt. His now free hand curls protectively around Sif's shoulders as the other tighten around Gungnir. "Are you not ready to be Queen, Sif?" he asks playfully.

Sif snorts, tossing her dark hair back. "I'm just ready for this battle to be over," she bites.

And then Thor's laughter rolls over them all. "I never dreamed I would see the day you would say any such thing, my love," Thor cries, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, "You have always been my Valkyrie."

Loki watches as Sif sighs, leans deeper into Thor's side. Whatever words she says in retort are lost, meant only for her husband's ears. At his own side, Jane presses close. "I think this is our cue," she whispers, "I doubt there will be another chance to slip away…"

Loki turns, runs his hands over the swell of her belly. There's a glow of something in his eyes, a fire of protective fervor, of love, of having something he will never let go. He presses his lips to the crown of Jane's head. "Then let's leave them be," he murmurs. Jane curls closer to him, gives him her brightest, most secret smile. His lips curl into an answering smirk. Even weighed down with their child, Jane can run, and she does so. Hand in hand with the being she loves best, into the nearest wormhole. Theirs is a story that doesn't really end.


End file.
